


Il Traviato

by kedgeree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Case Fic, False Identity, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Past Character Death, Prostitution (a bit), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 68,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A down-on-his-luck ex-soldier meets a wealthy businessman in need of a short-term companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授權合譯】Il Traviato《倫敦夜迷情》](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701328) by [EEKWGERMANY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EEKWGERMANY/pseuds/EEKWGERMANY), [Jawnlock123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jawnlock123/pseuds/Jawnlock123)



> This fic is for evltree, whose pardon I beg for taking so damn long, for the AO3 Fundraiser Auction. The prompt for the story was, in its short form: "a hero on the battlefield, a screw-up on the streets." I may need to also beg your pardon for where I went with that! Enter the idea for a Pretty Woman fusion (which leaned over into earlgreytea68's AU Ficathon of Absurdity). Tack on a case fic (sort of) and some angst and shake well and you have _this_!
> 
> Thank you to aniciajuliana, MB, and Idrillia for beta, Britpick, and support! <3
> 
> OK, here we go...
> 
> WEE UPDATE: I made a silly [cover](http://kedgeree11.tumblr.com/post/127317465669/its-il-traviatos-birthday-yeah-fics-have) for this on tumblr. :-)

"I'm so pleased to be doing business with you, Mr Spencer," Sherlock purred, raising his glass in toast to his companion, "and to finally put a face to the voice. I do hope you're as good as you claim to be."

The expensively-groomed, fair-haired man leaning against one of the cocktail lounge's carved interior columns favoured him with a smug grin. He smoothed his red silk tie, an unnecessary gesture designed to draw Sherlock's attention down his body. A Savile Row wool suit enhanced the lines of his well-muscled physique. If nothing else, Sherlock admired the cut of the suit.

"Call me Philip, please. We are going to be…in bed together, after all, Mr March." His hazel eyes sparkled behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. "And I am… _that_ good."

Sherlock lowered his gaze and chuckled appreciatively at the innuendo. _Flattered, but not submissive._ He supplied the expected next line, letting his gaze drift upward again to linger on Spencer's handsome—almost pretty—features. "Then you must call me Gabriel."

Philip Spencer showed no signs of authentic sexual attraction to Sherlock, but it was one of the strategies for control he had been testing over the course of their acquaintance. He trotted out the none-too-subtle flirtation whenever Sherlock tried to gain the upper hand in their interactions. In response, Sherlock gave the appropriate signals—energy in his hands, frequent blinking, a forced edge to his laughter—to suggest he was thrown properly off balance and much more invested in the acquisition of the offered information than he was trying to let on. Spencer's previous clients may have been men and women accustomed to getting what they wanted, but in the end they had been easily manipulated by a man who knew how to fuel their desires.

Spencer knocked back the remainder of his drink. "Like the angel," he breathed with a little laugh.

Sherlock's stomach turned as he caught the exhaled scent of expensive Scotch, but he hid his reaction and cooled the back of his suddenly tight throat with a swallow of his own heavily-iced vodka tonic.

"Another?" Spencer nodded at Sherlock's still mostly full glass.

"Please," Sherlock smiled his gratitude, letting his host play the attentive provider.

As Spencer moved away with glasses in hand, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to forestall the headache forming behind his eyes. The lounge was a favourite meeting spot for City boys crowing over their day's triumphs, drowning their sorrows in the most conveniently accessible beverage or young woman, or plotting the vanquish of their corporate foes. Sometimes all three simultaneously. Although the ambience was one of soft, low-key elegance, to Sherlock's senses it was proving insufficient to its task tonight; there were too many people in the room, too much noise, too many smells, too much movement. The perfumes were too loud, the laughter was off-key, even the clink of ice against glass was too sharp.

He was well past ready to return to his hotel suite and strip off the accursed, smothering tie and self-entitled leer he wore as Gabriel March. But the costume was part of the game. It wasn't supposed to feel good. It was just supposed to work. Philip Spencer would arrange for Gabriel March to be provided the details of Morse Industries' rumoured breakthrough in the production of a new aramid synthetic fibre. Gabriel March would pay handsomely for the information. Philip Spencer would try to kill Gabriel March.

So far, everything was going according to plan. Sort of.

"Here we are!" Spencer was at his elbow again, pressing a freshly-iced vodka tonic into his hand.

"Thank you, Philip."

"All good things from my hand." Spencer winked and leaned in to speak more quietly into Sherlock's ear. "I'll put your gesture of good faith," he patted the thick envelope he had placed in the inner pocket of his suit jacket, "to use right away, Gabriel. Drink up and relax. Things will move forward quickly from here. You'll be a happy man very soon."

Sherlock smirked and lifted his glass once again and clinked it against Spencer's. "I'm looking forward to it," he countered and let something he knew Spencer would appreciate, something predatory, filter into his expression.

Spencer's eyes lit with a dark, anticipatory glint. "Oh, so am I, angel. This is my favourite part."

That, Sherlock believed, was utter truth. Spencer clearly loved the hunt.

"I'll be in touch very soon." Spencer gave Sherlock's shoulder a last, lingering squeeze before he slid easily away into the flow of the lounge crowd.

Sherlock's sly smile slid from his face as soon as Spencer's back was turned. The next step was to follow him. He doubted Spencer would go running straight back to his employer for a cuppa and a giggle over the evening's work, but, well…sometimes one got lucky. He needed more information on the man. Should have gathered it already.

_Damn it._

He was off his game. He leaned against the carved column Spencer had abandoned and pinched the bridge of his nose again. He should be able to _push through_ this fatigue that had begun to plague him. There was no excuse for giving in to it. If he had not been sleeping or eating for the past couple months…well, he should be used to that. _Nothing_ should be affecting his usual ability to manage his mental and physical condition.

With a sigh of disappointment in his body's expression of weakness, he set his drink on the nearest table and made his way toward the loo. He could see the shiny blond of Spencer's hair as he made his way toward the exit. A splash of cool water on his face and he would be ready to go.

He was fine. He would manage this and he was _fine_.

When he opened the door to the toilets there was no avoiding the young man slouched on the red Chesterfield immediately within. His suit jacket was crumpled on the floor. He held a needle in his right hand, the tip poised over a bulging vein on the inside of his left elbow, just under his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Sherlock froze, riveted by the silvery glint of the needle.

All the previously distracting sounds faded, overwhelmed by the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

_Need. I need it._

"What the fuck are you looking at?" snapped the man on the sofa, his red-rimmed eyes flashing.

Sherlock made a choking noise in the back of his throat.

_No. The work. You promised._

Suddenly it was all too much and memories he did not want but had not yet managed to delete stole their chance to rush into his mind. The sickeningly bright fluorescent light and antiseptic smell of hospital corridors. The taste of copper in his mouth. Careless laughter from the room next door.

Sherlock reeled out of the men's room as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him and pushed his way blindly through the lounge. He felt beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip as he bolted out the door. He bent over on the pavement, hands braced against his upper thighs, taking in gulps of the cool night air.

"All right, then, sir?" the valet asked with almost aggressive indifference.

"Just get the car," Sherlock snapped, and paced back and forth, digging his fingers through his hair, rubbing at his scalp, as he waited. When the black Mercedes pulled up to the kerb, Sherlock practically pulled the startled valet out of the seat in his haste to get in and away. He jerked the wheel, floored the accelerator, and sped away into the London night.

 

+++

 

John Watson limped up the stairs to his second-storey flat, thumping his cane much harder than necessary on each step, his lips pressed into a grim line. He unlocked the door, slammed it shut behind him, and addressed the blanket-wrapped, snoring form on the sofa.

"What the hell is this?"

The lump snorted and stirred at his shout, and his sister's head emerged from beneath the blanket. "Whzat? John?"

John checked his watch. Just past nine. He'd left the flat around half three. She'd apparently come in since then to sleep off the effects of another binge. The flat smelled like rubbing alcohol, so it was probably vodka again. At least he didn't smell vomit this time. Or piss. "This." He crumpled a small slip of white paper and threw it at her. "Harry. What. Is. This?"

Harry wriggled herself into a partially upright position and pulled her arm from underneath the blanket to pick up the paper wad. She smoothed it out and squinted at it blearily. Her cropped blonde hair was standing out in all directions and she had a dark smear of mascara down one cheek. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red-rimmed. "S'a bank slip," she muttered. "So?"

"And what does it say?"

Harry blinked at it several more times, grunted, and re-crumpled the paper. She rolled back over so her face was turned into the back of the sofa, away from John. "It says _fuck off_ , I need to sleep."

"It _says_ my bank account is empty. That's what it says. Harry, _again_? The rent is already late."

"John…I had to party," she groaned, pulling the blankets back over her head. "Weren't hardly nothing in there anyway."

"Shit, Harry, just…shit." John rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I'm really trying here, you know."

There was a pause so long that John thought Harry had gone back to sleep before the lump mumbled, "Sorry," in a small, shaky voice.

Somewhere under that blanket, under the layers of stink and anger and defensiveness and shame, was his sister. His real sister. And he couldn't help her. _Some healer_. He just wasn't trying hard enough, was he?

John squeezed his left hand into a fist to stop it from twitching. "You're all right?"

The lump sniffled. "Just need to sleep."

With a sigh, just in case, John fetched the bucket from the bathroom cupboard and put it next to the sofa. He carried a mug of cold tea and an empty crisps bag from the sofa table to the kitchen. Kneading distractedly at the pain in his right thigh, he explored the contents of the fridge. He thought that blue cheese had been cheddar when he bought it. He wasn't certain that raisins were sold in bunches. He _was_ fairly certain milk was not supposed to ooze when poured.

John checked his pockets. Almost four pounds. Milk and a couple tins of beans? "Harry, I'm going back out."

The sofa snored.

He would have to try harder. That was all.

If they could hold on until his next paycheque came in, pay the rent, and eat they'd be doing well. If not, then his drab little flat might not be _his_ drab little flat for much longer. And it would be a hell of a lot easier if Harry didn't keep "borrowing" his card. He'd have to change the PIN again tomorrow. And find a way to bring in a more cash. His army pension and the work he'd found proofreading medical journals did not quite make ends meet in London's economy, especially now that he had Harry, divorced, drunk, and homeless, to support. He would try again at another clinic.

There. It was all sorted now. They'd be fine.

John hobbled down the stairs and back out into the night, leaning heavily on his cane. He pulled the zip on his jacket all the way up and took a deep breath of the chilly autumn air. Their street was fairly quiet at night, even though it was not too far from the shops and there was a pub on the corner. In fact, he'd stop in there on the way to Tesco…they might still have some peanuts out.

He was just crossing the street when a dark sedan careened around the corner with a screech of tyres, side-swiped a lamppost, and skidded to a halt with one tyre on the kerb. A group of girls dressed for clubbing jeered as they swerved around the car's bonnet.

"Jesus," muttered John, immediately changing direction to check on the driver and any passengers.

A tall, angular man in a business suit flung himself out of the driver's side onto the pavement, cursing at full volume. He was clutching his right wrist with his left hand, but whatever injury he had sustained apparently was not severe enough to inhibit his temper or his theatrics.

"Are you all right?" John called.

"What?" The man glared at him. After a final stomp of his foot, like a frustrated child denied his way, he answered through clenched teeth. "Fine. Yes, I'm fine."

John jogged across the street to him. He was sharp-featured and striking. His eyes were pale and almost eerie in their intensity under the unnatural yellow light of the street lamp. Quite slim. His dark hair looked like it had started the day styled and slicked back, but had since been dishevelled into a wilder, more natural state. "Anybody in there with you?"

"I'm alone, so, no."

"Let me see that wrist."

The man stared at him with obvious suspicion.

"I'm a doctor."

"Are you?" the man drawled, his eyes narrowing. Slowly he extended his arm for inspection, watching John curiously.

John gently tested the wrist, rotated it until the man winced at the pain. It was already starting to swell, warm, and a little red. John also took the opportunity of their proximity to surreptitiously smell the man's breath for the scent of alcohol and check his eyes. Apart from a slightly elevated pulse, understandable under the circumstances, he didn't appear impaired. Agitated, perhaps, but probably sober. That was a pleasant surprise.

"Sprained," John told him, "probably. You might want to have it X-rayed at hospital to make sure it's not broken." John gave him a smile and a light squeeze to his upper arm, just above the elbow—the little reassuring touches that he automatically incorporated into his interaction with his patients. "But it's not."

The man nodded, sliding his wrist from John's fingers. His expression as well as the tension in his body had both relaxed a bit. When not clenched in a snarl, his face was really…quite handsome. Arrestingly handsome. His cool gaze ranged over John's face. "Thank you."

John cleared his throat. "Is there, um, someone who can collect you?"

The man frowned at the car. "What for? It looks driveable."

John looked at the car, too. "Yeah…but…I don't think _you_ should drive it."

John was favoured with a scowl and an offended look. "Why not? I'm perfectly fine."

"You aren't. You need to rest that wrist. And, frankly, you look a bit…wired."

The man's full lips compressed into a thin line of annoyance. He raised his right hand to his head, winced, and lowered it with a sigh. He glared at John again, as if his current situation was now John's fault. "Fine," he grated. "I'll get a cab." He peered down the street as though a taxi would materialize for him on demand.

John snickered. "This isn't your neighbourhood, is it?"

The man looked down his nose at John. "I know my way around London. You'd be surprised how well."

"Yes, I'm impressed already. So what are you doing _here_?"

The man gave John the look of someone who was not often mocked and wasn't quite certain he was hearing correctly. "Just…driving."

"I see." John nodded and pursed his lips, looking at the scraped and dented car wing and door. "You know your way around a car as well as you do around London, then?" John thought for a moment he might have pushed too far, but instead of the verbal abuse John was expecting the man's haughty glare dissolved into a surprised chuckle--a warm, rumbling sound that John could have sworn he felt in his own solar plexus.

John found himself grinning in response.

"The closest Tube station is Brixton," the man sighed. He tried again to run a hand through his hair, remembering just in time to use his left instead of his right. "I'll just go there."

"If you like…I could drive you," John heard himself offer. He squeezed the handle of his cane.

The suspicious look returned immediately. "Why would you do that?"

_I've no idea._ John swallowed, taking in the man's thousand-pound suit, hundred-thousand-pound car. He lifted his chin. "If you could just…give me the cab fare back." That would work. Then he could walk or take the Tube and get something for dinner for himself and Harry, too.

The man's gaze swept John once again like some kind of human security scanner, assessing John's threat level. John held his stance and his face steady. He did not look away, even though he was feeling suddenly remarkably transparent and more than a little ashamed at having to ask for what amounted to a handout.

"All right."

"All right?" John's eyebrows lifted. Apparently his threat level was minimal. "Good, then. Good."

The man stood looking at him.

"Well…if you're…all done here…shall we?" John nodded toward the car.

The man sniffed, opened the door, and slid gracefully into the passenger seat of the car. John climbed in the driver's side, stowing his cane in the seat well and adjusting the seat position to accommodate his shorter legs. "So…where are we going?"

"The Rivers."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Of course we are." Only one of the best hotels in London. "They'll have ice, I suppose," he mused as he familiarized himself with the dash of the Mercedes.

"Ice?"

"For your wrist. We can stop at the chemist's for a bandage."

The man flicked a bemused look at John.

"I'm John, by the way. John Watson."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Gabriel March."

John offered his left hand to shake. Gabriel March stared at it for a moment before he clasped it in greeting. His hand virtually dwarfed John's and the pads of his fingers were just a little rough against John's palm.

When John pulled his hand back, it was tingling. Sometimes the tremor in his hand caused that. Once in a while.

John took a deep breath. "Well, then…let's see if this thing will start."

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock crossed the black and white marble-tiled floor to the concierge desk in the lobby of the Rivers Hotel, scanning and mentally cataloguing out of simple habit any changes in the brightly polished space since his last visit. The _thunk_ of the rubber tip of John Watson’s cane against the tile sounded rhythmically just behind him. “Messages?” he asked the girl at the desk. She had dyed blonde hair, a vacant expression, lived with her mother, smoked only when she was away from home, and was sleeping with a drummer.

“No, Mr March.” She eyed John, who had halted a respectful distance from the desk to wait for Sherlock.

“Please have a bucket of ice and a sandwich tray sent up.” Sherlock turned his head and eyed John as well. The doctor was trying to be subtle about gawping at the elaborate lobby chandelier. A plastic chemist’s bag dangled from one hand. John had insisted they stop for a wrist bandage as well as a bottle of paracetamol. He’d frowned in concentration selecting his preferred brand, not satisfied the Rivers would have the proper one available. “And the starters platter. And the dessert tray. And tea.”

“Yes, sir.” She picked up her desk phone to call in his request.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock instructed crisply, turning to make his way toward the lifts. John made a small, hesitant sound behind him. Sherlock lengthened his stride. After a moment, the thump of the cane and the rustle of the chemist’s bag followed him, and Sherlock smiled to himself.

Inside the lift, Sherlock swiped his key card through the slot and pressed the button for the penthouse level. He felt John’s eyes on him, but kept his gaze forward to discourage questions. His wrist was starting to throb, but he didn’t have the energy to be annoyed by it right now. He had begun the ride over the Thames and across town to the hotel frustrated with having to text instructions one-handed to have the car picked up from the hotel and repaired. Once that was dealt with, though, the soft light and quiet inside the car had started to soothe him a bit. John had a calm presence and had not bothered him with idle chatter. He’d been able to lean his head back and listen to nothing but the susurration of the road beneath the Mercedes’ wheels. His head was not pounding as badly and his nerves felt significantly less frayed, but he still wanted a shower and his usual clothes. And bed, once he had dealt with John Watson. He didn’t want to sleep—he didn’t need sleep—he just wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the darkness. _I need it._

A chill ran down his spine and he shuddered.

“You all right?”

John’s hand was instantly around his undamaged wrist, no doubt checking his pulse and the temperature of his skin.

“I’m fine.”

The lift dinged and the doors slid open. The penthouse level had six suites, and Sherlock led John to the door farthest on the left of the lifts and slid his card in the slot by the door again for access. John hovered in the hallway and tentatively poked his head inside the room, surveying the not-completely-understated luxury of the space inside. The suite was decorated in soothing neutrals in a modified art deco style, with oak hardwood floors and a large, black granite fireplace. “So, you’re…”

“What?”

“Rich.” His assessment was matter-of-fact, without awe or resentment. “Bit more than a nice car.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Family money. I inherited.” He had no trouble maintaining a lie, but some perversity had led him to incorporate that little bit of truth into his cover identity. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over the back of one of the upholstered chairs in the lounge.

“Wow.”

Sherlock followed the direction of John’s arrested gaze to the panoramic night view of London through the terrace doors. The suite’s spacious terrace faced south down the Thames toward the Eye and the Westminster Bridge. London was shining in the clear night, the Eye glowing blue and Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Parliament lit in gold. Sherlock walked to the terrace door and slid it open, tilting his head to indicate that John should step outside with him. The air was even cooler up here than on the ground, but it was a crisp, refreshing sort of cool. Invigorating. Maybe he wasn’t so tired after all.

“Wow,” John repeated reverently as he moved to the edge of the terrace and looked out across the city.

Sherlock joined him at the railing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

John was quiet. The corners of his mouth tightened. “I love London,” he finally replied. “Nowhere else could be home.” He glanced at Sherlock self-consciously and shrugged.

“No, I…understand.” The doctor had apparently been away from home. Not just a doctor—an army doctor, Sherlock had realised while John was examining his wrist. Invalided home, apparently, given that limp and a tremor that occasionally shook his left hand. The limp…Sherlock frowned. Something wasn’t right, there.

That the man was in financial need would have been obvious even had he not asked for money for his return across town. His jeans, brown brogue shoes, and blue jumper were all clean and neatly-kept but sadly worn. He was living in a low-income area and he was clearly hungry. Tired. Worried eyes. Burdened.

He’d run toward Sherlock’s unfortunately-situated car. So the limp was psychosomatic.

Damaged.

Not _working_ as a doctor, or he would not be living on such meagre means.

Interesting. That helped to explain why Sherlock had not found him immediately irritating as he did most people. Why he still did not find him irritating. He had a kind face, which was typically _quite_ irritating. Kind-hearted, perhaps, but also calm, competent, and undemanding. Steady, but not dull. Something Sherlock did not encounter often in his line of work. And ethical, it seemed. In spite of his apparent need, it had not occurred to him to ask for money until he was assured of Sherlock’s well-being and even then he had requested a very small sum from a person presenting the overt trappings of affluence.

Sherlock guessed his age at perhaps 37 or 38, but his face was lined with the patterns of both laughter and distress and his blond hair was already greying. His hair smelled nice. His musculature was on the fit side of average. Sherlock suspected he was slimmer at present than he might be had he a more comfortable budget.

His hair _smelled nice?_

Sherlock scrolled abruptly back to that thought and frowned as he took a step away from John. There was no need to _smell his hair_. He wasn’t a crime victim.

He was saved from further self-admonition by a polite knock from the hallway. Sherlock returned to the sitting room as his suite’s designated butler entered, rolling in his requested room service order on a cloth-draped trolley. The diminutive, mature woman gave him a warm smile. He almost returned it, almost allowed himself to feel the warmth, before he reminded himself that it was likely the same smile she bestowed on all her guests. He nodded to her politely instead. The grey skirt, black blazer, and white gloves of her uniform were smart and subdued while her short hair was dyed a defiantly cheerful shade of strawberry blonde. Husband was away, and likely had been for some time. Liked playing scratch cards. Planning to retire soon.

“Good evening, Mr March. Would you like these on the dining table?”

Sherlock inspected the three silver-covered platters and pot of tea and pondered whether he should have ordered something stronger than tea. Wine? Beer? Brandy? “Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Feeling peckish?” John asked from behind him, as he slid the door to the terrace closed and stepped inside.

“No, I’m not hungry. It’s for you.” Sherlock gingerly squeezed his wrist as he watched Mrs Hudson begin setting out the serving ware and platters. “You brought the ice?”

She bent down to retrieve a bucket from the lower shelf of her serving trolley. “Just here, Mr—oh, dear, have you hurt yourself?”

Her expression was disproportionately dismayed, and as she seemed on the verge of fussing over him, he volunteered, “It’s all right, I’ve a doctor at hand.”

Her glance at John was more assessing this time. “Well, sir, I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Er. Mrs Hudson, is it? Hello.” John bobbed his head awkwardly and still managed a charming smile. He held the chemist’s bag out as if the sight of it would reassure her. “Yes, he’ll be taken care of.”

She eyed the bag and then looked at John’s face again and her eyes twinkled. “I’m sure he will, sir.” Smiling to herself, she returned her attention to arranging the tea service.

John peered around her at the veritable mountain of food on the table and then looked at Sherlock, registering his recent words. “Wait. That’s for _me_?”

“You’re hungry. And it’s better than pub food.”

Sherlock took a moment of pleasure from the look of bewilderment on John’s face.

“How…”

“Please,” Sherlock casually waved John’s surprise away with his uninjured hand. “Your stomach was rumbling practically the entire way here.” He adjusted the position of one of the forks on the table. “And you were walking in the direction of the pub when I…encountered you.”

John raised his eyebrows at the trays. Approximately thirty options from duck spring rolls in plum sauce to baked brie pastries with apricots to hazelnut tiramisu were laid out for his gustatory indulgence.  “I’m not _that_ hungry.”

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” Sherlock shrugged.

John stared at him.

_What?_

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat delicately. “Would you like a fire on tonight, Mr March?”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock waved her toward the fireplace. Admittedly, hospitality was not really his area. He lifted the lid of the teapot to sniff at the tea and looked at John, who was hesitating again, watching him with a strange expression. “Problem?”

“No, it’s…” John cleared his throat roughly. He glanced at Mrs Hudson and away again. “It’s good. Thank you.” He hooked his cane over the back of one of the dining chairs.

“Is there anything else, sir?” Mrs Hudson asked. The fire had begun to glow.

Sherlock shooed her away distractedly.

"Thank you...Mrs Hudson," John called after her as she moved away, and was rewarded with another one of her warm smiles. 

They stood without speaking until they heard the suite door close softly behind her.

“Your wrist.” John held out the chemist’s bag. “I’m meant to be tending to your wrist. Not…having dinner.” He cast a forlorn look at the starters tray and pulled the bandages, medical tape, and paracetamol out of the bag. He held out his hands to Sherlock. “It has to be hurting. Let me see.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s hands and shook his head. He was feeling strangely affected by these gestures—Mrs Hudson’s kind little smiles, John’s soothing ministrations. Further proof something was _wrong_ with him, some undeniable and worrying frailty to be rooted out and burnt away. _Later_. “It can wait a few more minutes. Eat first.”

John hesitated, clearly torn between temptation and his belief it was his duty to insist on Sherlock’s immediate first aid. As if on cue, his stomach issued a loud growl.

“It can wait,” Sherlock repeated firmly, dropping his wrist so his body obscured it from John’s line of sight.

“Yes, I…all right. If you’re sure.” John licked his lips and reached for a plate. “Aren’t you having anything?”

“No.” For a few moments he watched John, whose eyes were shining with anticipation now as he examined the desserts platter. “I’ll be back in a moment. Make yourself at home,” Sherlock instructed, satisfied, and stole away to his bedroom while John’s attention was focused on a blackberry pavlova.

 

+++

 

John woke slowly, pulled out of a hazy dream of huddling by the fire in his uncle’s cabin on Loch Tay, listening to his family singing horribly off-key Christmas songs. He groaned contentedly and stretched his legs, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He felt relaxed and warm and he could see the firelight still flickering orange against—

“Shit!” John struggled to transition his sprawl across the sofa to a sitting position. His legs were tangled in his blanket. When had he gotten a blanket? He’d still heard the shower running when he finished dinner and he had only closed his eyes for a _minute_ while he waited for March. He checked his watch. It was half two. “ _Shit_. Sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.”

March was slouched in a burgundy upholstered wing chair opposite John, watching him through half-closed eyes. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He was dressed for bed—a loose dressing gown over a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His feet were bare. His dark hair had dried in loose curls. He was holding a flannel wrapped around a plastic bag of ice chips against his neatly bandaged wrist.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“What?” John wriggled and tugged his legs free of the blanket at last, trying to work his way back toward dignity. “No, I don’t.”

March raised one eyebrow. “’Nana, the pudding’s on fire again!’” he proclaimed in an accurate impersonation of John’s voice.

“Well. Fine. I talk in my sleep.” John groaned and rubbed sleep from his eyes. At least it hadn’t been a nightmare. God only knew what he might have said then. He looked around. The lamps had been turned off, leaving the fire as the only source of light. The dining table had been cleared. His cane was now leaning against the end of the sofa.  “Look. I'm sorry for...this. I'm going right now.”

“John,” March sighed. “There’s no rush. It’s fine.”

“No,” John shook his head. March’s laptop was lying closed on the floor next to his chair. John’s skin prickled. How long had he been watching him? “You’ve not gone to bed yet because of me. You don’t need to…I don’t know…sleep? You should be resting.”

“No, I...it doesn’t matter.” March dropped his eyes with a frown and shrugged. “I don’t sleep much.”

Something in the tone of his voice struck John as forlorn and familiar. John quieted and really looked at the man. The low light deepened soft, dark smears of fatigue under his eyes. His features were held in a guarded balance of tension and emptiness. John knew that look far too well. He had seen it every day in the army—men and women who were crying out, screaming out underneath their stone-still faces for simple reassurance that someone could still hear them.

He’d seen it on his own face in the mirror.

There was a large, well-padded ottoman between the sofa and March’s chair, and John took a seat on it, scooting forward so he was within arm’s reach of March. He took the bandaged wrist in his hands and inspected it, setting March’s ice pack aside.

“Swelling’s gone down. How’s the pain?”

March shrugged again.

“You’ve done a good job.”

“It’s not my first time,” March said with a wry twitch of his lips.

John looked at him searchingly. He hadn't needed his medical assistance, that much was clear. Yet he had brought him to his room. Fed him. Watched him sleep. “So why am I here, exactly?”

March looked down at John’s hands on his wrist in puzzlement, as if the question had not occurred to him.

“Was there something else you needed?” Perhaps he knew why he was here. John took a deep breath and held it, and followed his instincts. He let his fingers drift upward on March’s arm. The skin was warm underneath his fingertips, soft, the veins pronounced to John’s delicate, sensitized touch. He felt March go utterly still, his pulse starting to pound. _Simple reassurance. Comfort. Just comfort._

He blew his breath out slowly, and March’s eyes widened.

The room was so quiet John could hear his own heartbeat, the soft slide of his hand under the fabric of March’s dressing gown sleeve. He stroked the softer skin of March’s inner elbow with the pad of his thumb, his fingers curling lightly around the taut muscle of his forearm.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. He wasn't sure if he was saying it to March or to himself. _Just comfort. Not alone. Let me. Please._

The silence stretched painfully. March seemed frozen. He looked…alarmed.

“Oh, God.” John tore his gaze away and hastily withdrew his hand, mortified. He’d read the situation all wrong. What was he doing? What the _hell_ was he doing? He was just…wrong. “I’m sorry.” His voice shook. “I’ve made a mistake.” He leapt to his feet, shoving the ottoman back with his leg, and turned to fumble for his cane.

March lunged forward with a sharp, incoherent sound of protest and grasped at John’s arm with his good hand. John took a clumsy step backward as March pushed into in his space, but the hand sliding up to his shoulder and around his neck caught him by the back of the head, steadied him.

Pulled them together.

March’s mouth was on his in a hard, sloppy, and overwhelming kiss. Off-balance both mentally and physically, John clutched at the front of March’s dressing gown as the kiss grew more fervent and even less controlled.  Their teeth ground together, and he grunted an inadvertent little sound of surprise and pain when his lip got pinched in between.

March flinched, glaring down at John’s mouth as though it had malfunctioned, and he started to pull away.

“Wait! No, just…wait.”

March’s eyes flew to his and they stared at one another, two animals each deciding whether it was time for fight or flight.

John touched the tip of his tongue to his lip, checking for the taste of blood.

March watched the small movement warily, with a stillness full of energy.

“Come back,” John coaxed, his voice low and rough.

March exhaled sharply. His fingers dropped from John’s hair and hooked around the back edge of his shirt collar, twisting it and the wool knit of his jumper tightly into his fist as he bent his head to John’s once again.

The next kiss was softer, slower, but more certain. Their heads found the right angles to tilt and the kiss built in waves of exploration and retreat, the rhythm of the tides in the volatile world born between the bodies of two strangers. John melted into March’s arms as their tongues curled and slid together in luscious harmony. He dragged his fingertips down March’s chest and around his waist beneath his dressing gown. When he slid his hands underneath the hem of his t-shirt to the hot, bare skin underneath, it was March who made a sound like he was in pain.

John drew back, breathing harder now. March looked wild-eyed. His mouth was open and wet. His hand was still fisted in John’s jumper like he _needed_ him. His desire flaring, John pressed his hips forward insistently, rubbed himself against the other man’s thigh so March could _feel_ his own need. _Let me._ He shifted his gaze deliberately, questioningly toward the door to March’s bedroom.

“Yes,” whispered Gabriel. He took John by the hand and led him to his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson had _seduced_ him.

At the start of it all, Sherlock had felt ashamed. Ashamed of his loss of control at the cocktail lounge. Ashamed of his reckless behaviour. Ashamed of the surge of need he felt for this man. Physical pleasure was transient, a generally useless distraction he could not afford. It had been a long time since he had allowed his body to have such control over him, be it sexually or in any other physical way. And it had been even longer since he had gone so far as to experience an orgasm with another person.

And now there was a man in his bed and Sherlock had most _definitely_ experienced an orgasm with him. For him. _On_ him, technically.

His responsiveness had been--unexpected. But John _said_ things, whispered things to him. Sherlock didn't remember what the words were, but he remembered how they had felt against his skin, hot and urgent. So long since he had been touched this way, like praise, and Sherlock had glowed like an ember for John, so desperate was he in that moment to _be_ that praiseworthy creature. He had poured himself out, completely, messily, surrendered _years_ of self-restraint into John's hand.

Afterward, John had curled himself into Sherlock's chest and fallen asleep almost immediately, in spite of already having slept for several hours on the sofa. Sherlock supposed that was what people did after sex. Wasn't it? He hardly remembered, but he didn't recall any of his former partners snuggling up to him for the night. In his admittedly limited experience, sexual transactions took place on an axis of clinical to roughly sordid that _snuggling_ had no point on. If that sort of tenderness had ever been shown him, he had most likely--must have--completely deleted it from his memory.

This--he would not feel ashamed of this. It was a counterproductive emotion. And after all, it was only one night. An aberration.

John grunted and stirred against him, and Sherlock held his breath until the rough little purrs of his snoring resumed.

He kissed the top of the aberration's head carefully, put his fingertips into the ruffled hair at the nape of his neck, grateful John did not wake to witness his indulgences. John's shampoo had a faint citrus scent. It _did_ smell nice. He liked it. He liked the warmth and small movements of John's body against his chest. He could see the edges of scar tissue on his left shoulder at the neck of the vest John had put back on to sleep in. He remembered the pattern. Shot. Rifle. He touched the edge of one white ridge.

He shifted to move his bandaged wrist further up on his pillow and draped his other arm lightly and protectively over the sleeping man's body.

It was only one night.

 

+++

 

John woke up alone.

Big, bright room. Morning. He blinked and squinted at his unfamiliar surroundings as his memories of the previous night resurfaced. Auto accident. Sprained wrist. Hotel. Room service. Warm fire. Kissing. Frantic fumbling. Hand job. Gabriel's dark curls, smashed into the white pillowcase. His long neck arched as he orgasmed. Loud. Unrestrained. Gorgeous.

Right.

He rolled over, letting the luxuriously satiny sheets slide over his skin. He felt-- _fantastic_. An orgasm of his own certainly hadn't been the worst part of the evening. God, he'd looked down at that big hand curled around him and--.

Wow. Yes. Just--wow.

John sighed and relaxed into the rare, precious moment of bliss, stretching his arms and legs out to their full extensions in the middle of the enormous bed.

Where was Gabriel, anyway?

John reached for his watch on the bedside table, peered at it, and grunted resignation. It was a little past time to get up, he supposed. He swung himself out of bed and into the polished, black and white tiled bathroom. After he relieved his bladder, he found a tube of toothpaste atop the basin and rubbed a smear of the minty gel into his teeth. He took an experimental sniff of one of Gabriel's expensive-looking grooming products—the scent reminded him of bright green tree leaves—but put the bottle down and settled for a quick comb of his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

His clothes were neatly folded in one of the bedroom chairs, even though he remembered leaving them strewn across the bedroom floor last night. Feeling curiously reluctant to disturb them, he instead wrapped himself up in one of the complimentary white robes from the bathroom.

As soon as he opened the bedroom door, John heard Gabriel's voice. He was speaking in an odd, unctuous tone, far different from last night's rough, deep timbre. Peering into the sitting room, John saw March was speaking into his mobile, pacing a lazy, meandering path across the room. John paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame just to watch him. A sharply-cut business suit, a different one from last night's, accentuated his height and lean build. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and a patterned blue tie was draped around his neck under the collar.

As soon as Gabriel noticed him standing in the doorway, his focus locked onto John. He immediately stopped pacing and turned to face him with a brief, unsmiling nod in acknowledgement of his presence.  "If you really think a face-to-face meeting is best--" he said into his phone. He was clean-shaven and his beautiful, thick curls had been subdued once again in a more formal, combed-back style. The conservative style made him look older. Almost like a different person. He even sounded like a different person. It was--a little off-putting.

John frowned, realising Gabriel must have been awake for a while now getting himself prepared for the day. And John had remained soundly asleep, undisturbed as another man—a stranger, despite their intimacies—moved around the bedroom.

Since the army, he slept on the edge of alertness, tense and expectant. Sometimes beyond tense. There was the time he had pinned Harry to the wall by her throat when she stumbled into his bedroom in the night looking for her mobile. That had not been a good night. He looked down at his hands. They looked small and nonthreatening now, poking out from the fluffy white sleeves of his robe.

He had felt--safe? Sated, yes, but _safe_ was another matter entirely. _Why_? Gabriel March did not seem like a _safe_ man.

A tremor shook John's left hand.

"Of course," Gabriel said. His silky voice was jarringly at odds with his sombre gaze, which had not left John's face. John wasn't sure he had even blinked. "You're the expert."

John spied his cane leaning on one of the sitting room armchairs and made his way to retrieve it, feeling self-conscious of his uneven gait as Gabriel's eyes tracked his awkward progress across the room.

"Set it up, then," Gabriel instructed with a magnanimous air. "Yes. I'll see you there."

Gabriel ended his call and shoved the phone into his trouser pocket as he walked slowly toward John. He stopped mere inches away, a little too close, chin raised. It was a challenging position and posture. He seemed--wary. His eyes were the light blue-grey of the early morning sky, and just as clear and cool. He watched John, waiting.

John was under no illusions about the nature of one night stands. Perhaps he had already overstayed his welcome. Perhaps the fact that this mussed, shabby stranger was completely out of place in this sleek room with this sleek man was far easier to see—for both them—in the lucid light of morning than it was by last night's warm, forgiving firelight.

He attempted a pleasant smile, even as he felt the renewal of tension in his forehead contradicting the effort. "Hello."

Gabriel's shoulders seemed to relax, his eyes softened slightly. When he spoke to John, his voice was deep and gravelly again. "Good morning."

John cleared his throat. "I--you didn't wake me, but I can see you're busy. I'm going to be out of here in just a minute."

A line formed between Gabriel's brows. "There's no rush."

"Oh."

"I've ordered breakfast," Gabriel added almost defiantly.

"Oh."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Gabriel called with an _I-told-you-so_ widening of his eyes at John, as though John had suspected the purported breakfast to be some idle boast.

The door opened and Mrs Hudson, looking fresh and cheerful, rolled another silver trolley into the room.

While Gabriel was evidently unconcerned at having his rather dishevelled overnight guest on display, John was seized with sudden embarrassment as her gaze swept him, standing there bare-legged in his borrowed robe.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she smiled sunnily at them both. With a reassuring lack of interest in John's obvious state of dishabille, she immediately began transferring food to the dining table.

John's mouth watered as the wonderful aromas started to fill the room, and he went to inspect the offerings. Once again, it appeared she was laying out significantly more food than two people could eat at a single meal—croissants, pastries, sausages, tomato, egg, fruits, tea, coffee, juice.

"You're really trying to feed me up, aren't you?" John asked Gabriel lightly.

Gabriel gave an irritated little shrug in response. He moved between John and Mrs Hudson, his arm brushing John's shoulder as he reached to adjust the placement of one of the plates. "I didn't know what you'd like so I—"

"—ordered everything on the menu?" John finished, glancing up with a grin.

Gabriel frowned and moved the teapot several centimetres to the left and John suddenly wanted to kiss him. Instead, he waited patiently while Mrs Hudson set out little dishes of jam, butter, and cream. Gabriel fiddled with the positioning of each in turn. She directed Gabriel's attention to the bottom of the silver trolley. "There's some more ice here for your wrist, sir, if you need it."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Gabriel nodded absently, inspecting the lid of the sugar bowl.

"Enjoy your breakfast, sir," she smiled.

As she exited the room, Gabriel gestured John toward the table with an open hand and an imperiously hooked eyebrow.

"Yes. Er, thank you." John pushed the kiss idea to the back of his mind and seated himself at the table as directed. Gabriel took a seat opposite him, watching him quietly as he prepared a cup of tea and spread a liberal quantity of jam on a slice of toast. "You're not having anything?" John asked when it appeared he was just going to sit there and watch John eat.

"I don't eat when I'm working. Slows me down." Gabriel leaned back in his seat, extending his long legs under the table and folding his arms.

John processed this assertion while he crunched a bite of crust. "Okay. So--did you--sleep well? Or--at all?"

"A little. On the sofa. I was working."

"So--you hardly sleep. You don't eat. You apparently work a lot. What is it you do, then?"

A very small smile played at the corner of Gabriel's mouth at the question. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. Lawyer?"

Gabriel's lips definitely twitched this time. "What makes you think I'm a lawyer?"

"You've got that sharp, useless look about you."

Gabriel's brows snapped down.

John snickered. "Well--you do look sharp. I highly doubt ‘useless,' though." He swallowed a slightly sticky bite of toast. "How's the wrist this morning? Not--er--the worse for wear after--?"

"It's fine," he sniffed primly.

"Of course. I wonder why I bothered to ask."

"So do I."

John took a sip of tea and glanced at Gabriel's open collar. "You can't tie your tie, can you?"

Gabriel's lips pressed together peevishly, and he yanked the loose tie from his shoulders. "Hateful things," he sneered at the offensive object.

Struggling not to laugh, John checked his hands to make sure they were free of any oil or blobs of jam. He stood and walked around the table to stand next to Gabriel's chair. "Here. I'll do it."

Gabriel rose and grudgingly pressed the strip of blue silk into his offered hand. John had to sort of fling the tie over the top of his head, then settled it back under the collar of his button-up, tugging at the ends to slide it properly into position. He buttoned the top buttons of the shirt, resolutely avoiding brushing his fingers against the pale skin at the exposed hollow of Gabriel's throat. The tip of his tongue poked out between his lips as he concentrated on tying the knot to bespoke suit standards, and he smiled satisfaction as he settled the finished product into place. "There."

"John," Gabriel's adam's apple bobbed as he paused and swallowed. "I have a proposition for you."

"Mm?" John hummed, intrigued, as looked up into Gabriel's cool eyes, head cocked to the side inquisitively.

"A business proposition."

"Business? Doing what, exactly?" He nodded at Gabriel's neatly-bandaged wrist. "It may not be back to full functionality for a few more days, but I don't think you still need a doctor. You didn't need a doctor in the first place."

"Not a doctor. An assistant. I'd like you to spend the week with me. Perhaps a few light errands. Accompany me to one or two social events. And I would ask that you share my bed, as well. You would be generously compensated. Can you type?"

"Of course I can type," John replied automatically, blinking as he tried to parse what he had just heard. "Sorry, did you just say—"

"Yes. You heard me." Gabriel's gaze was uncomfortably direct. He had drawn his chin up again haughtily and blanked his expression. "I would like to hire you as an employee."

"As an employee--to sleep with you."

"To have sex with me."

A chill washed away the warmth of the tea in John's belly and the warmth of the gesture of breakfast--a gesture he realized now he'd been far too easily impressed by. And why was he wearing this stupid fuzzy bathrobe? He felt naked. He had been wondering how to raise the question of his cab fare home without it feeling awkward. He had been wondering whether he could take some of this food back for Harry—such a shame to let it go to waste. The conquering hero, returned home with £20 and a chemist's bag full of muffins, and it would actually have felt like there was some pride in it. "I'm not a--prostitute."

Gabriel frowned. "I didn't suggest that you were."

"You want me to have sex with you for money. How is that not prostitution?"

"I don't want any emotional entanglements."

"We already had sex. Last night, remember? For free. And I was _leaving_. No _entanglement_."

"I don't _want_ you to leave yet." Gabriel's jaw was jutting out stubbornly.  "You're a capable man. I need an assistant. You are also open to sexual activity. I desire you sexually. You need money. I have money. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, don't you see? One you are, of course, free to decline." His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply through his nose and briefly squeezed his eyes closed. When he re-opened them, he said, quietly, "But I hope that you will consider spending the week with me."

"For sex."

"How many times do I have to say it?"

John snorted disbelief. "Yeah, how much money are we talking about here?" he asked sarcastically.

"How much do you need?"

His mind reached for an impressively prohibitive figure. "£7200," he smirked. The rehab program he wanted to see Harry in started at £3000 for detox. The full therapeutic program was more than double that amount. A lot of money, even for a rich man.

Gabriel didn't bat an eye. "Done."

John sucked in a breath. "What?"

"Why do you do that? I know you hear me."

John licked his lips and nodded firmly. His mind was running in circles now. "So--just so I have it all straight--you want me to spend the week with you."

"As I made clear."

"And service you in bed."

Gabriel frowned. "I said _share_ my bed."

John raised his eyebrows. "What's the difference?"

Gabriel's mouth tightened. "I have no interest in an unwilling partner. Any--any sexual gratification should be--mutual. If those--terms are not acceptable--then--"

"Terms, yes. We should discuss terms. What _kind_ of sexual gratification?"

Gabriel blinked. "What kind?"

"More hand jobs? Rub off on me? You want me to suck you off? Fingering? Rimming? Your cock up my arse? Or the other way around? Do you have toys? Rough, maybe? Do you want to tie me up? Shave me and dress me in stockings? Wait, don't tell me, whips? You seem like a whip man. I have a lot of ideas if you need some suggestions."

Gabriel had gone bright red.

"You're offering me a _lot_ of money. The more specific you are, the better I can ensure you get your proper value for it, yeah? By all means, don't be shy now. What _exactly_ do you want?"

Gabriel bared his teeth and grabbed John's forearm, hard, fingers uncomfortably digging into the muscle.

"Rough, then?" John nodded.  "Now we're getting somewhere."

Gabriel pulled John's arm toward his injured wrist, pressed his hand into his inner elbow, and held it there, glaring at him significantly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John demanded, squinting back in confusion.

With a pained, exasperated sound, Gabriel moved his hand to the back of John's head. John started to jerk away, but Gabriel's touch was light, his hand resting but not controlling. He closed his eyes and slowly bent his head to John's, pressing their foreheads together. Gabriel inhaled through his nose, a long, deep draw of breath, and dropped his hand, twisting it into the collar of John's robe.

_Oh._ Last night. He was mimicking their actions from last night.

The fight drained out of John. _Just comfort._

He pressed his thumb into the crease of Gabriel's elbow, stroked into one of the folds of fabric of his suit jacket. "Oh." It was all he could think of to say.

Gabriel wrenched his head to the side, and spoke into his own shoulder, avoiding John's eyes. "If the terms are not acceptable--"

"The terms are acceptable," John said.

"Is that a yes?" Gabriel's voice was tight. "We have an agreement?"

Was he really going to do this? It was ridiculous. If he agreed to this, it would be the most ridiculous thing John had ever done. _Dangerous_ , even. _Could_ he do this? For money? For Harry?

John sighed away the last of his reservations. It was true: everyone had their price. "We do."

"Good." Gabriel turned away abruptly and stood, fussing with his jacket and tie, smoothing himself into place. When he looked back at John his face was once again expressionless. "Then let's begin. I'll be gone most of the day. I want you to buy some clothes. Conservative. Elegant. A proper suit. You'll need to look the part of my assistant."

"I have a suit," John offered.

"A _proper_ suit, John." He swept a hand down his torso to indicate what a proper suit looked like.

John scowled defensively. "Maybe I already _have_ \--fine. A proper suit. What else?"

Gabriel collected his coat and briefcase and walked to the door of the suite. John trailed after him. "Your hair will have to do, I suppose."

"What's wrong with my _hair_?"

Gabriel looked at John's hair and reached out as if to touch it. "Nothing," he said softly. He glanced at his hand like he was surprised to see that it had moved, and withdrew it, continuing crisply, "Daywear. A coat. Shoes. Anything you need for the week. I'll have Mrs Hudson leave you appropriate funds."

He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, where he turned to give John a strange, hesitant look. He seemed to be searching for something to say. "John," he finally offered, "I would have paid more."

John shook his head. "You know, if you'd just asked me, you wouldn't have had to pay anything," he said softly, and closed the door in Gabriel's face.


	4. Chapter 4

"Here you are, sir," Mrs Hudson handed John a thick, sealed envelope. "Per Mr March's request, your room key and your mobile."

"My mobile?" John carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the phone to examine it. Did Gabriel think he didn't have his own phone? Well…all right, he almost didn't. The service was likely to be discontinued if he didn't pay the bill soon plus the charge had run out during the night.

"I've added Mr March's number to the contacts," Mrs Hudson pointed at the screen as John pressed the button to turn on the phone, "also per his request, and I've texted him this phone's number."

One text message was waiting.
    
    
    Use only this phone to contact me.
    GM

John's eyebrows climbed. How cloak-and-dagger. Would it self-destruct five seconds after he used it? What combination did he press to turn it into a stun gun?

"I don't suppose it was you who chose this background photo?" He turned the picture on the screen of a cup of tea toward her.

"It's the little touches that matter," she nodded firmly.

"I like it." John smiled at her.

The envelope she had given him was still thick. John peered inside to see it held a small stack of cash and a credit card in addition to the key card for the room. Was this what Gabriel considered _appropriate funds_? He wouldn't go so far as to count it out in front of the butler, but it looked like…a fair sum. And how much money would be available on that card? How was Gabriel to know John wouldn't just take what he had in hand and leave?  "Mrs Hudson? Er…there's one more thing I was wondering whether you might help me with."

Mrs Hudson drew her small frame up attentively. "Yes, sir?"

He hesitated, trying to determine the least embarrassing phrasing for his question. "Gabriel…Mr March…wants me to…that is, I need to buy a suit. And some other clothes."

"Yes, sir…?"

"Well…where do I go? For a _proper_ suit."

"Oh, I see! Hm." Mrs Hudson stepped back and swept him from head to toe with an appraising look that reminded him of one of Gabriel's scans.

He'd showered after Gabriel left, but of course had to put his clothes from last night back on. They'd spent some time on the floor, so his shirt was a little rumpled. There had been a dicey moment when he'd thought one of his shoes had gone missing, but he'd found it tucked under one of the sitting room chairs. So, all in all, he was not looking quite his best, but he thought it was a big improvement over the I-just-fell-out-of-bed look he'd presented her with earlier that morning.

"If I may say so, sir, you strike me as a classic sort of gentleman."

John looked down at himself. "Really?"

"Definitely. I think we'll send you to Kilgour for your suit. I'm assuming you'll need it quickly?"

"Well, he didn't say…exactly…what we'd be doing, but I suppose I should have it for tonight. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. There's no time for bespoke, obviously, but you can have a ready to wear suit tailored by tonight—especially if the request comes from me." She smiled mischievously. "Shall I make an appointment for you?"

"I need an appointment?"

"Oh, yes. And for your casuals, Liberty might suit. We'll make an appointment there, too. It might be a bit overwhelming for you otherwise."

John laughed good-naturedly. "Mrs Hudson, that part I can handle, picking out a few jumpers and trousers and what not.  I might not know where to get a _proper_ suit, but I _can_ dress myself. I've done it for years now."

"Yes, sir," she agreed immediately, then looked him up and down once more and raised a meticulously-shaped eyebrow. "We'll just make that appointment for you, I think."

John stared at her for a moment in offense, then subsided. "Fine," he sighed, then looked at her sheepishly. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, really. I believe you may be a saint."

"No, sir. Just your housekeeper," she smiled and folded her hands at the front of her skirt. "You're going to look very handsome, you know. Not that you aren't already quite handsome, of _course_ , sir."

"Now I know you're a saint."

"Just your housekeeper, sir," she repeated firmly, but her eyes were pleased. "Shall I text the appointment details to your phone?"

"Thanks, that would be…great."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"I don't think so, Mrs Hudson." He gathered up his jacket and cane and gave her a little wave. "I'm off. Wish me luck."

She smiled. "I'll text you those details. You have a lovely day, dear."

In the privacy of the hallway, John thumbed through the notes still inside the envelope and his eyes widened in shock. There was £1000 in there. He counted again, to make sure. £1000. Just in cash. Being a kept man definitely had its benefits. His chest felt full of butterflies as the reality of his situation began to register. This wasn't play money. This was real. He was _actually_ going to be able to get Harry some help.

He had to visit the flat for his own phone charger, his laptop, and some fresh clothes for the day. He would surprise Harry with some shopping! Using this exorbitant spending money for a little treat or two wouldn't be against the spirit of his arrangement with Gabriel, he didn't think. Not leftover muffins, he could get Harry some of those Chelsea buns she really liked. She did still like those, didn't she? And milk and bread and tea.

John left the hotel with a brisk step. It was bright, sunny morning, and he squinted up at the clear, blue sky, daring it to judge him.

 

+++

 

Sherlock spent most of his taxi ride to Westminster refusing to second-guess his offer to John Watson. It was a perfectly reasonable arrangement. Practical, even. John had perhaps not responded well initially— _rough, tie me, suck_ …Sherlock squirmed in his seat--but he had seen reason in the end.

He spent the rest of the time determinedly avoiding any thoughts on exactly how he was going to carry through on the offer— _don't think about rough, fingers, tie me._ His mind—his clearly _faltering_ mind—had not planned far past _keep him_.

The timing of this ridiculous _want_ of Sherlock's was beyond unfortunate, with the case coming to a head. A substitute for cocaine? An applied stimulant? Possibly. He didn't care. He wanted it. He wanted _more_.

And it would only be for a week, after all.

"This is it," the driver announced, breaking Sherlock's thoughts away from the slide of short blond-brown-grey hair under his palms as he pulled the taxi up to the kerb. His destination was a small café ever-so-cleverly titled Perqs and advertising artisanal coffees.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and strolled in, casting a quick scan across the shop. It was doing a lively trade for mid-morning on a weekday. Two students in a corner booth: rumpled hipster t-shirts and hand-knitted scarves, they'd been out all night. Professional woman: attractive, early 30s, tan trench coat and a cloud of dark hair, absorbed by her mobile. Teacher: early 20s, blonde-haired and pink-cheeked, on holiday and hoping to meet someone, her flirty new red boots were blistering her heels. Three stubble-chinned tradesmen talking football. A smattering of other boring people talking about boring things. A nice, safe, public meeting place.

Sherlock donned his Gabriel March smile as he approached a tense-looking woman in a high-necked grey sheath dress seated at a table near the back of the café. The steamed milk heart design in her caffè macchiato was undisturbed, although she'd all but shredded one edge of the paper napkin beneath it. The heel of one polished Manolo Blahnik pump tapped an anxious staccato against the wooden floor.

"Ms Golynski," Sherlock said quietly, and slid into the chair opposite her before she could acknowledge him. "Thank you for meeting me."

Her vivid green eyes, by far her best feature, narrowed in their nest of heavily mascaraed lashes. "I don't have it yet," she whispered urgently. "I need more time."

Sherlock folded his leather-gloved hands calmly on the table top, and Clare Golynski pulled her macchiato closer to her, away from his hands. Some of the coffee sloshed over the side of the white cup and was absorbed by the napkin underneath.

"How much more time?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice softly sweet. Too sweet.

"Your man said I had _two weeks_. It's only been ten days!" Her voice pitched higher, volume rising.

Sherlock gave her several moments to let her agitation increase as he leaned forward and let his eyes crawl over her face and body in an insolent inspection. "Is it really _that_ difficult?" he finally smiled. Still sweetly. "Perhaps you're not as capable as I'd hoped."

"Tomorrow--" she all but yelped.

"Shhhhh," Sherlock quieted her with a slow blink.

"Tomorrow," she repeated, dropping her voice to a whisper again. "I'm visiting Ted tomorrow night. His wife is visiting relatives. I have the pills and I know where he keeps the records. It's all going to happen."

Sherlock rocked back in his chair, steepling his fingers in satisfaction. "Excellent. Interesting. Ted would be Theodore Trigg, of course, your supervisor and the man you plan to seduce or drug into a stupor tomorrow night. The records I suspect would be, given your mutual line of business, an account of your high profile clients' direct pharmaceutical orders. Am I right?"

Clare stared at him. "Of course that's right. That's what you _told_ me to do."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "Or, rather, what my _man_ told you do."

She shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Yes. So?"

"Ms Golynski," Sherlock said, "I'm afraid you've been labouring under a misapprehension—albeit a deliberately cultivated one. I am not your blackmailer."

The bright green eyes widened in alarm. "Then who…how…oh, God…"

"It's all right, Ms Golynski. I think we can help one another." Sherlock looked at her with a determined expression that was, this time, entirely his own. "Shall we begin again?"

 

+++

 

Harry was in at the flat, thankfully sober, showered, and engulfed in her favourite fuzzy brown dressing gown when John arrived laden with shopping bags. He delighted in the stunned look on her face.

She stumped into the kitchen behind him and leaned over his shoulder as he unloaded his morning's purchases. "Johnny, love, did you rob a bank?" she marvelled.

"No, you cow, I did not." He shoved her away playfully. "Get off me. And don't call me Johnny. Just a bit of shopping, you know? Oh, and I stopped off by Wendell's office and we're, er, good for one more week's extension on the rent."

"All right then, if you didn't rob a bank, where'd all this come from, eh? Your cheque come in? Thought that wasn't for two more weeks, you said."

John turned to look at his sister. "You know that thing makes you look like Chewbacca, right?" he nodded at her robe.

"You're still just jealous I'm taller than you." Harry shoved him back, then reached behind him to pick up a pack of Jammie Dodgers. She turned it around in her hands, squashing the biscuits at each end of the package as she'd done since they were kids. "Seriously, John…what's going on?"

"I got a job. Don't get too worked up. It's only for a week." He had decided during the taxi ride he had treated himself to that he would not tell her yet about his hopes for the rehab program. It was a _big_ thing, so it was best to wait until he actually had the cash in hand. Not that he doubted Gabriel's honesty. Of all the things he doubted, Gabriel's honesty was not one of them. "But the pay's not bad at all. I got an…advance. It'll help."

"Well…great, that's great! Come and tell me about it."

"I can't tell you too much, just now." _I'm sleeping with a man for money, but at least I didn't rob a bank._ "I've got some other bits and pieces to do. Very busy and important. I just need to pick up my things."

Harry frowned. "Your things? What for? Where is this job?"

"It's…not far. In the City. I'll be working…on site….for the week."

"On site?" Harry's eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. "That where you were last night? On site?"

He really should have thought his story through better. Harry had always been able to tell when he was not being entirely truthful, even though John thought he had an excellent poker face. A special sister skill, he supposed. John smiled reassuringly. "It's nothing to worry about. The…man…who's hired me wants me to stay nearby. In a hotel, actually. Time-sensitive work."

Harry leaned back against the worktop and folded her arms. "How well do you know this _man_?"

"Well enough."

"You're a sodding liar. What sort of _job_ is this?"

John flushed, looking guilty as hell even though he hadn't lied at all! He raised his chin belligerently. "He…" Stick to the truth. Just not all of it. "He injured himself in a car accident and needs an assistant for the week. Just running errands, that sort of thing. That's why I'm staying at the hotel. For…convenience."

"So you're letting a strange man put you up in some seedy hotel? Are you _barking_?"

"It's a _nice_ hotel," John muttered.

"And he's a _nice_ man, too, huh? He could be…Johnny, you think you know what people are like just because you've been in the army, but you _don't_." Harry rolled her eyes at his sad, sad naiveté. "Is he twisted? Some sort of freak? What's wrong with him?"

"Harry, it's fine. It's not like that." His jaw set stubbornly as his temper flared. It wasn't _like that_. Not really. He wouldn't have agreed if it was _like that_. Gabriel wasn't twisted. And if Gabriel _was_ twisted, well…then so was John. And it was nobody's business but their own. By agreement.

Harry sighed. "Just look after yourself, yeah?"

John sighed, too, letting the wave of defensiveness go. "Of course. What about you? Are you going to…be all right for the week?"

"I'm not helpless, either, John," she scowled.

 _Not what I meant._ "Yeah, all right, well…I'll just get my things, then."

He bumped into her deliberately on his way out of the kitchen and they exchanged matching smirks of reluctant temporary accord.

John's mobile chimed on his way into his bedroom with a message from Mrs Hudson.
    
    
    Kilgour 12:30 Mr J Rance
    Liberty 2:30 Ms Penelope Finch

John nodded in approval—he'd just have time to drop his belongings off at the hotel before the appointment for his suit. He quickly changed into a fresh pair of pants, jeans, and a clean jumper and gathered up his phone charger, laptop case, extra pants, another pair of jeans, and his toiletries bag. He supposed that was all he needed, if he was meant to buy _proper_ clothes for the week.

He paused on his way out of his room, then turned back and shut and locked the door to his bedroom and opened the door to his wardrobe. Climbing on a chair to reach the upper shelf, he pulled down a heavy metal box and unlocked it with a key he kept on his keychain. The SIG Sauer P226 he had, through a series of favours and extraordinary luck, managed to retain from his army days rested within. His hands were steady as he verified the weapon's magazine was unloaded and the chamber was clear. He kept it well-maintained. He tucked the gun and a small supply of ammunition into separate pockets of his laptop bag and closed the wardrobe again.

He didn't plan to use it, but he felt better when it was nearby. Gabriel needn't know.

Harry was waiting in the sitting room, perched on an arm of the sofa with a steaming mug of tea in hand.

"So the money's good, you said?"

"Pretty good, yeah."

"How good?" She was doing her casual face now.

"Good enough for a week's work."

"And that," she flicked a finger toward the kitchen, "was just an advance? When do you get the rest?"

"End of the week, of course."

"Huh. That's probably what's wrong with him." She blew on her tea to cool it, watching him over the rim of the mug. "Well…like I said…look after yourself, you great twat."

"I'm only a phone call away if you need me."

"Yeah, I know. Now bugger off and go make some money."

"Love you too, Harry," John smirked, hitching his bag up onto his shoulder and picking up his cane.

"And…sorry about your trainers."

John frowned over his shoulder. "What about my trainers?"

"Oh. You didn't see." Harry took a very demure sip of tea. "Never mind, then. Off you go!"

 

+++

 

Sherlock rounded the corner to Berkeley Square, walking to think as he processed his conversation with Clare Golynski. The cool air on his face was making his mind feel especially clear so he flipped the collar of Gabriel March's grey wool overcoat back down and loosened his scarf so he could feel the breeze on his neck as well. The details of the blackmail scheme didn't concern him. The best, the most delightful piece of information was the confirmation that Spencer—because he knew it was Spencer from whom she had received her instructions—was someone's man.

 _Someone's man_.

Gabriel March's phone buzzed from his coat pocket. Sherlock fished it out and checked the alerts.
    
    
    Mission accomplished. Acquired: one proper suit. -J

Sherlock texted back without breaking his long stride, even though typing with his left thumb only was aggravatingly slow.
    
    
    Good. You can wear it to dinner tonight.
    GM
    
    
    
    
    I thought you didn't eat. -J
    
    
    
    
    You do.
    GM
    
    
    
    
    Is this a date? -J
    
    
    
    
    It's a meal.
    GM
    
    
    
    
    I hardly need to seduce you.
    GM

There was no response from John for the next three blocks, as Sherlock chose a route that took him along Conduit Street past several exclusive menswear shops and headed in the direction of Savile Row. He automatically swivelled his head as he walked to scan the pedestrian traffic for a diminutive man with a cane. It wasn't unlikely John was in this area right now. Unless he'd finished his shopping already. Had Sherlock offended him with his last comment? He was simply stating a fact. They had an agreement. Finally his phone buzzed again.
    
    
    No, I guess that's my job. -J
    
    How's this? -J
    (2 photo attachments)

Sherlock opened the first photo. It was John, taken of himself in what looked like the private dressing area of a shop. It was a close shot, taken from John's arm length and angled slightly up so that it caught his exposed throat and the curve of his jaw. He was looking down into the camera, one corner of his mouth tugged up into a smirk, his eyes half-closed, the tips of his long eyelashes highlighted gold. Sherlock's eyebrows rose appreciatively. He weaved around a couple pushing a stroller as he called up the second photo, and actually grunted aloud. This shot was of the top of John's unzipped trousers. His stomach was bare, showing the soft trail of light brown hair starting just below his navel and disappearing beneath the elastic band of his underwear. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed the view of the photos to reply to the message.
    
    
    good
    GM
    
    
    
    
    It's very good.
    GM

Sherlock stopped mid-stride on the pavement.

"Watch it, mate!" a gruff voice admonished, veering around him with a rough shoulder bump.

Sherlock ignored it and called up the photos again. What was John _wearing_? He peered at the photos. While the focus of the photo was on John's throat, he could see a bit of his suit jacket and shirt in the shot as well. The suit jacket was blue with a wide, bold pin stripe. The shirt that lay open at his neck was a paisley in a mix of vivid yellows. Peeking out from under the collar was a lime green and yellow floral tie. In the second photo, John's trousers also bore the aggressive pin stripe. His underwear, Sherlock supposed, did match the trousers—they too were striped white and blue.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in pain.
    
    
    John, no. 
    GM
    
    
    
    
    John, your clothes. 
    GM

There was no response.
    
    
    John, you look like you're hosting a panto.
    GM
    
    
    
    
    John, where are you?
    GM
    
    
    
    
    John?

Sherlock sighed and looked up and down the street. Somewhere nearby John Watson was outfitting himself in a distinctly inelegant, distinctly non-conservative wardrobe. He supposed he could correct the matter tomorrow, perhaps accompany him to replace the flashier items. Sherlock looked at the pictures again and started to chuckle.

Somewhere nearby, John Watson.

Somewhere nearby…Sherlock squinted toward Regent Street where a woman stood at the corner looking at a display of shoes in a Clark's shop window. Professional woman: attractive, early 30s, tan trench coat and a cloud of dark hair.

Sherlock pocketed his mobile, tightened his scarf, and turned the collar of his coat back up with a snap. He started walking again, turning onto Regent Street toward Piccadilly Circus. He was almost a block away when the dark-haired woman turned to follow.

Oh, things _were_ getting interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

John strolled across the Rivers' lobby with a little extra spring in his good leg. He had to admit that the quality and fit of the clothes did seem to make a noticeable difference in how he both looked and felt.

Liberty was delivering most of his purchases to the hotel, but he had worn one of his favourite outfits (yes, he was wearing an "outfit") out of the store. A new pair of perfectly-fitted jeans, tobacco brown grain leather brogues, and a dusky red knit jumper that his personal shopper Penelope (yes, he had a "personal shopper") had been quite enthusiastic about, and his absolute favourite—a navy suede bomber jacket.

He had been unable to help stealing glances at himself in every vaguely reflective surface he passed on his way back to the hotel. His arse actually looked more firm. His shoulders looked broader. Fit. Maybe even a little taller. He looked _good_. And the Kilgour suit had made him feel like James Bond. It was to be delivered, as well, after a few alterations. He was looking forward to wearing it. Mostly—to be honest, and his own anticipation surprised him—he was looking forward to Gabriel's reaction.

Inside the suite he shed the bomber jacket along with a royal blue cashmere scarf. The jacket he hung with care in the entryway cupboard. The scarf was a gift for Gabriel, though it seemed odd to purchase a gift for someone with his own credit card. John had pulled it out of its gift box on impulse to wear it around his own neck on his return, and now he refolded it and smoothed it back into its tissue paper wrapping. He placed the sealed box on Gabriel's pillow.

One night and it was "Gabriel's pillow" and "John's pillow," was it? John snorted at himself. Gabriel hadn't even actually _slept_ there, for fuck's sake.

There was a light, rapid knock at the door of the suite.

"Dr Watson?" called Mrs Hudson. She sounded excited.

"Come in," John called back, and Mrs Hudson bustled in with a long garment bag folded over one arm.

"Your suit's been delivered. I had to bring it up myself. Oh, sir, it's lovely," she said conspiratorially.

"That was fast." John said, appreciating the tailoring and delivery speed, and grinned. "You've had a look, then?"

Mrs Hudson coloured faintly. "Quality inspection, sir. After all, you were acting on my advisement."

"Of course," John nodded solemnly. "I appreciate your diligence. So I did all right?"

"Lovely," she repeated rapturously. "I knew it had to be Kilgour for you. If they were good enough for Mr Cary Grant," she sighed nostalgically, "they're good enough for Dr John Watson. Didn't I _tell_ you how handsome you were going to look?"

Ducking his head with a self-conscious smile, John took the garment bag and draped it over the back of a sitting room chair. "You did indeed. And I have to tell you…I _did_ have fun. Thank you again, Mrs Hudson."

"Part of the service, sir."

Looking at her composed expression, John suddenly wondered…how often did Mrs Hudson perform these sorts of services for Gabriel? She seemed quite comfortable provisioning John to be a suitable guest for Mr March, even if this was a typical part of her job. And Gabriel was a handsome man. He could have all the company he wanted. Clearly _company_ was the one thing Gabriel did do while he was working.

John looked at his shoes. "So you…do this sort of thing often? Take care of your guests'… _guests_?"

"This was a pleasure, sir," Mrs Hudson chuckled. "You'd be surprised, some of the things I've been asked to assist with."

"Ah."

She gave him a sharp glance and reached over to pat his arm. " _Other_ guests, dear. Mr March is quite…self-sufficient."

"Have you known him long? Does he stay here often?"

Mrs Hudson just tilted her head kindly. "I think you'd best ask Mr March any further questions, sir."

"Oh, of course…I didn't mean…" John's attempt at casual denial faltered and fell flat. "It's really none of my business," he finally shrugged. And it certainly wasn't. "Sorry."

"And if you're not going to try it on, you hang that suit up properly right now," she admonished him gently.

John picked the garment bag back up and scuffed toward the entry cupboard with it.

"Sir?"

John blinked at her. "Yes?"

"I said _if_ you're not going to try it on…" Mrs Hudson said hopefully.

Grinning again, John switched directions and headed for the bedroom to change.

 

+++

 

Mrs Hudson was lying in wait for Sherlock when he returned to the hotel. She ambushed him near the lifts, clearly keen to effect a fortuitous but accidental encounter. "Oh, Mr March," she exclaimed brightly, "I'm so pleased I've found you here. I have a message from your doctor."

"My doctor," Sherlock repeated dryly.

"Yes, sir. I trust your wrist is healing well under his care?" Mrs Hudson arched an eyebrow. "He wanted you to know he's waiting for you in the lounge."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock's head swivelled toward the low sound of generic, unchallenging music coming from a hallway on the opposite side of the lobby.

"Very intriguing young man," Mrs Hudson spoke up behind him as he started to move away, "your Doctor Watson."

Sherlock turned back to look at her curiously.

"Have a good evening, sir." She walked away with an enigmatic smile.

Sherlock checked his watch on the way into the hotel bar. It had taken him longer than he'd anticipated to lose his new _friend_. His first impulse had been to confront her, intimidate her purpose in tailing him out of her. It was usually the most efficient method for gathering information. But a closer look at her attire as well as her surveillance tactics made it quickly apparent _what_ she was— _police officer_. That still left the question of _why_ he had become the focus of her attention, but obviously it had to do with Clare Golynski, which meant it had to do with Philip Spencer. Which meant…what?

He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Perhaps he should not have suggested this dinner after all. It had been an impulsive thought. The case was where his attention should be focussed.

He scanned the room, looking for a small man dressed as a carnival ride.

It took two full visual sweeps before Sherlock's eyes locked onto a man leaning casually against the bar, cool and slim in a perfectly-fitted dark blue herringbone suit that was not remotely chalk-striped, garish, or comical. The man wearing that suit was utterly _elegant_ —and _that_ was _John_.

 _Intriguing man_.

A woman was hovering about him, a doe-eyed, curvaceous brunette who was over-laughing at whatever it was John had just said. She touched John's sleeve and Sherlock crossed the room in six long strides.

"He's with me," he announced sharply.

The woman's big, vacant brown eyes widened at him in surprise. "I was just—"

"I said _he's with me._ " Sherlock moved in so he could loom over her and stared down his nose coldly. And off she went, spluttering and muttering harsh words that he had no interest in as long as she was moving _away_.

"You're late," John said mildly. An empty glass sat by his hand on the bar. "And that was rude."

There was a glint in his eyes. Irritation? Humour? Something else? Sherlock's eyes travelled down the row of small, close-set buttons on the caramel cashmere knitted waistcoat under John's suit jacket. The bottom button was open, revealing a glimpse of a brown leather and a silver belt buckle. "You're…you look…good." He swallowed and touched a fingertip to one of the buttons. _Want._

"You were expecting something else?"

Yes, _that_ look was amused. Sherlock fixed him with an accusatory glare. "You did that on purpose. That…fancy dress costume."

"Yeah, it's called taking the piss." He was smiling. Teasing, not mocking. Not the same as _piss off_.

"Voltaire," Sherlock said, his eyes drifting to John's subtly-textured chocolate brown tie. He touched another waistcoat button. The surface of the little disc was cool, but he could feel the heat of John's body just underneath. "We're going to the Voltaire."

"All right. I don't know what that is, but all right. Just," he held up a warning hand, and said saucily, "as long as we're clear this is _not_ a date."

More teasing. Inclusive. Warm eyes. Sherlock stepped closer to him, pressed his body against John's raised palm. Tugged another button between his fingers. Dropped his voice. "Afterward, I want to unwrap you."

John's intake of breath was gratifying. His cheeks flushed. His pupils widened. He leaned in toward Sherlock. His voice was gruff, too. "Then you've changed your mind about seducing me?"

Sherlock's mouth curled up. _Teasing_ it was, then. "I hardly need to, do I?"

 

+++

 

The Voltaire lived up to John's expectations of elegance based on what he'd seen thus far of Gabriel's tastes, but it was also surprisingly comfortable. Cosy, even. The elegance came from high ceilings, warm red walls accented with white trim, and large, gold-framed, beautifully-painted nighttime scenes of both London and Paris. The comfort came from padded leather dining chairs John could only describe as _squishy,_ set around simple rustic wood tables. Beside each table was a floor lamp that cast a pool of light over the diners seated there—creating an island of warmth and intimacy with the relative darkness of privacy just beyond. It had a very homey feel…if your home was actually quite grand.

John was still feeling the buzz of Gabriel's unexpected show of possessiveness and tantalizing little touches at the hotel bar. Even though they had passed the taxi ride to the restaurant mostly in silence, Gabriel's gaze had drifted to him frequently, wandered his body with interest and promise.

The suit was a success.

"I looked you up on the Internet this afternoon," John volunteered after they had ordered their meals.

Gabriel twitched an eyebrow at him. "Anything interesting?"

John leaned back his seat and pursed his lips, tilted his head in consideration. "Depends. Do you spend much time in the States racing tractors and monster trucks?"

"Not recently."

"Hm, that was probably the wrong Gabriel March, then. No, I don't think I found you. You're a man of mystery."

Gabriel took a swallow of his wine and made a sour face. "What was it you wanted to know?"

His tone didn't suggest he would actually provide an answer, more that he was simply curious.

John shrugged. "Anything you want to tell me, I guess. I still don't know what you do for a living. Except that you're not a lawyer. But if you don't want to…share, that's fine. After all…"

Gabriel nodded. "It's only for a week."

"Right." John looked down at the table. Picked up a fork. Turned it over in his fingers.

There was an aggrieved sigh from the other side of the table. "Finance. Investments."

A bit vague, but it was a start. "Well. Makes sense. City and all. I suppose that's interesting work?"

Gabriel sighed again, all discouragement in his voice. Meanwhile his leg brushed John's under the table. "It's really not. Wouldn't you rather hear—" He stilled as something over John's shoulder caught his attention. His eyes narrowed.

John turned and saw a silver-haired man in a light grey trench coat approaching their table.

The man commandeered an empty chair from a nearby table, moved it between John and Gabriel's, and had a seat. He smiled at them pleasantly, with big white teeth and big brown eyes that put John in mind of a sort of ruggedly handsome cartoon chipmunk. "Evening," he said affably, placing a brown file folder on the table. "Mind if I join you?"

"Friend of yours, Gabriel?" John frowned. His skin prickled as he sensed rather than saw the tension that crawled over Gabriel.

"Oh, sorry," the man smiled and offered John his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

John accepted the handshake automatically, although he remained wary. "John Watson."

"And…Gabriel, is it?" Lestrade held his hand out to Gabriel, who didn't bother to look at it or offer his hand in return.

"No."

Lestrade withdrew his hand. "No?"

"No, John, this isn't a friend of mine. I don't know him. And, no, Mr Lestrade, you are not welcome to join us. Or should I say _Detective Sergeant_ Lestrade?"

"Detective Inspector, actually," he nodded, unfazed, and pulled a police badge from inside his coat. "And, no, you don't know me…but I know you." He glanced at John again. "Gabriel."

Gabriel smirked. "I doubt that."

Lestrade opened his file folder. On top of a stack of papers was a photo of Gabriel, sitting in what looked like a coffee shop with a striking blonde woman. He was, John noticed, wearing the tie John had tied for him that morning. Lestrade put his finger on it and looked at Gabriel. "I think we have a common acquaintance."

Gabriel's eyes flicked down to the picture, back up to Lestrade's face.

"You met this woman today," Lestrade said.

Gabriel twitched a shoulder, then took a deep breath and let it out in a woeful sigh. "Date. We met online and thought we'd have a coffee, try it on. It didn't work out." He wrinkled his nose. "Not my type."

John frowned.

"Mm," Lestrade nodded. "And her name?"

"RhinestoneCowgirl69. Has she done something wrong?" Gabriel's eyes widened. "Have I had a narrow escape?"

Lestrade sighed and closed the folder. Drummed his fingers on it while he studied Gabriel. John shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"I knew your brother, you know," Lestrade said.

Gabriel flinched as though he'd been doused with ice water.

Lestrade lowered his voice. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

John looked back and forth between the two men. The air had gone thick and heavy around them. Lestrade looked sincerely sorrowful. Gabriel's lips had gone white around the edges. "I'm sorry, too," John offered into the awkward, tense silence. Neither man looked at him.

Gabriel lifted his wine and took a large swallow. His hand was shaking. John's instinct was to reach for him, even though he was now feeling completely lost as to what was going on. If Gabriel was in some sort of trouble with the police—what had John gotten himself into here? Lestrade was looking down, giving Gabriel a moment to collect himself. There was another long moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I told you," Lestrade continued quietly, "I know you. I recognized you. Seen your picture before. He talked about you. And I know what you do. What I don't know is what you're doing in the middle of _this_." He gave his file folder another thump with his index finger.

Gabriel's nostrils flared. "I've told you all I can, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade gave John another assessing look. John blinked back owlishly. Gabriel, he noted, had not looked at him once since Lestrade had walked in.

"I'm breaking every protocol being here. Sally wants to know why I haven't arrested you already."

" _Sally_ ," Gabriel scowled.

"Sergeant Donovan." A grin tugged at the corner of Lestrade's mouth. "Thought you'd lost her, didn't you? She's good."

Gabriel's scowl deepened.

" _We're_ good. But I think you might be better. If you know something that would help, we should work _together_. Share what you know, I'll give you everything we have. I don't know what you're after, but…there are lives at stake."

"Then go do your job and look after them," Gabriel said coldly. "I wish you success in your endeavours. As long as you stay out of my way."

Lestrade shook his head. "Next time you get in _my_ way, I _will_ arrest you."

Gabriel gave him a little mock bow from his seat, eyes snapping. "I look forward to it, sir."

Lestrade rubbed wearily at the stubble on his jaw. "Yeah, I guess that's enough for now." He reached into one of the pockets of his coat and pulled out a business card. He stood, picking up his file folder and replacing it with the card. "So you know where to find me. If you change your mind. And I hope you do. Mr Watson, pleasure to meet you." He nodded to John.

John mumbled something incoherent in reply.

He started to leave, then turned back. He seemed to be struggling with himself for a moment before he finally said to Gabriel, "He was proud of you, you know."

"I thought you said you _knew_ him," Gabriel snorted his first acknowledgement of his brother's existence. Former existence, John supposed. "Apparently not very well."

"Well enough." Lestrade's eyes were grave. "He was a good man."

Gabriel swallowed the remainder of his wine in one gulp and made the sour face again. "Most people who _knew_ him would have described him either a great man or a complete bastard. Your faint praise belies your claim, Inspector," he smirked.

Lestrade's jaw clenched. "Then _most_ people are idiots. He _was_ a good man. And he _was_ proud of you. It's why I came to you. I also know he was never wrong. Don't make this the exception." Lestrade nodded. "That's all I have to say. Enjoy your dinner."

As soon as Lestrade's figure was out of sight, Gabriel rose so abruptly he almost overturned his chair. He threw a handful of cash on the table. "We're leaving," he told John shortly, and strode past the puzzled-looking waiter who had just appeared with their dinner plates.

John grabbed his cane, picked up Lestrade's card and shoved it into his pocket, and shouldered past the waiter with a regretful look at the plate of braised ribs on his serving tray. They probably would have been delicious.

He almost didn't make it into the cab Gabriel flagged down, and suspected Gabriel would have left him standing on the street had he not made a lunge for the door as it was closing. The silence between them in the back of the taxi this time was not shared—it was two pockets of isolated silence. While Gabriel stared fixedly out his window, hand curled into a tight fist in front of his mouth, John tried to sort out what had just happened in the restaurant.

Immediately upon their return to their suite in the Rivers, John followed Gabriel onto the terrace and watched him drop into one of the chairs, tucking his knees up and wrapping his arms around himself, a balled-up rock of leave-me-alone staring up at the night sky.

"So what was all that, then?" John asked quietly.

When his only answer was silence, John pulled another chair over next to Gabriel and sat. "So you met a woman for coffee. Today. A woman the police were watching."

"Obviously," Gabriel gritted out.

"That inspector wants your help. And," John felt his way through it, "you don't want to help him."

Gabriel made an angry sound in the back of his throat. "She should _not_ have been able to follow me. I'm _better_ than that."

John's brow furrowed. "Who? The coffee woman? Or that Sally person? Was that…really a date?"

"Everything's _off_ , _wrong_ ," Gabriel snarled, bolting out of his chair. He started pacing the length of the terrace. " _I_ don't make mistakes. _I_ don't miss things. _I_ don't do," he waved a hand at John, " _this_."

John blinked, stung.

Gabriel sighed impatiently. "Oh, don't be like that. There's nothing wrong with _you_."

 _Ha._ Everything was wrong with him. A limp was fine, a tremor was fine, but something was wrong at his core, something that made him useless, not a part of the world any more. And now he couldn't even do _this_ , this thing with Gabriel. And he'd thought, what, that a snog and a grope and a posh suit were going to turn things around? It made John laugh, a puff that threatened to turn into a manic confusion-fuelled giggle if he didn't swallow it down hard. "He…didn't seem like a bad bloke, that Inspector."

Gabriel waved the statement away.

"Are you…in some kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do? Can I…help?"

"How could _you_ help?" Gabriel stopped pacing to stare at him with a puzzled expression.

John just shook his head. "I don't know."

"I can't—" Gabriel balled up his fist with an exasperated growl. "I need to _think_."

Then he was gone, disappeared into the darkened sitting room, shutting the terrace door behind him with a sharp, dismissive _snick_.

John leaned back in his chair and stared up at the cold night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry Mycroft. I love you. Extra hugs and kisses for you in my next Mystrade.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're shifting from an M to E rating here, folks, just to be on the safe side...

John stayed outside on the terrace, letting the sounds of the London streets far below occupy him, until the cold finally got the better of him. When he came back into the suite, it was quiet and still dark. A quick check of each room confirmed Gabriel's absence. He rubbed his face, not entirely certain whether or not he was annoyed to find himself alone. He supposed he had no real right to annoyance—he was an employee, after all, not an actual guest. And he was well able to entertain himself. He ran his hand down the row of buttons on his waistcoat.

He wanted a cup of tea.

He _was_ annoyed— _justly_ , in this case, he thought—that in the kitchenless suite he couldn't go through the motions of making a proper tea for himself. Because going through the motions was really half the point, wasn't it? Grudgingly he rang for room service.

While he waited, John changed out of his suit and hung it neatly and regretfully away far at the back of Gabriel's wardrobe. He changed into the comfortably familiar pyjama bottoms and t-shirt he'd brought from home, although he kept on the new pair of warm navy houndstooth wool-blend socks.

His tea arrived, delivered not by Mrs Hudson, but by a young man who remained irritatingly cheerful when confronted with John's surly acceptance of what could only be _semi_ -comforting tea and a small selection of biscuits.

The rest of his purchases from Liberty had been delivered while he and Gabriel were out, so John restored a little order to his world as he drank his tea by putting his new clothes away in the rest of the free nooks and spaces he found in the wardrobe. He tucked his toiletries into a corner of the bathroom sink top.

Where might Gabriel have gone at this hour? How long did it take to _think_ about whatever he was _thinking_ about?

John checked his email. He scanned his favourite news sites, read the most interesting-looking articles.

He practiced twirling his cane between his fingers, but gave it up when a mis-timed twist of his thumb almost resulted in a shattered table lamp.

When there was still no sign of Gabriel, John settled in on the sofa under a blanket and watched a documentary on 1970's British rock 'n' roll.

He poked his feet out from under his blanket and watched the way his toes moved inside his socks.

He flipped through channels on the telly again until he found a classic Cary Grant/Audrey Hepburn film that was just starting. By the time the menacing Walter Matthau was dealt with and Audrey Hepburn was set to marry Cary Grant in spite of his multiple identities and general shenanigans, and Gabriel _still_ had not returned to the room, John gave in to his restlessness and dialled the butler's number on the room's courtesy phone.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hudson, I know how late it is, but—"

"You're looking for Mr March, sir?"

"How did you know—"

"I'll be right there."

John didn't bother changing into more suitable attire. When Mrs Hudson knocked on his door and then beckoned him to follow her to the lifts, he just grabbed his cane and key card and left the suite. Mrs Hudson led him to the lobby, which was mostly deserted given the late hour, and toward one of the lounge areas. He heard music, the forlorn sound of a lone string instrument.

Mrs Hudson gave his shoulder a quick pat and gestured him inside with a sympathetic expression. "The lounge closed over an hour ago. He's been playing all night," she said. "Such sad songs."

Several hotel staff members were arrayed across the large, dimly-lit room, leaning against the walls or the backs of chairs with sweepers or rags in hand as though they'd paused in their duties tidying up to listen. A performer's platform was set against a wall lit in soft blue light. In the centre of the platform was an elegant black grand piano and at the edge stood Gabriel March, playing a violin.

John stared, transfixed by both the sight and the sound. Gabriel's eyes were squeezed shut, and there was a deep groove between his brows. He swayed in place as he played, summoning melancholy from his body and directing it into the instrument. At some point he had removed his suit jacket—it was tumbled on the piano bench next to a violin case—and unbuttoned his shirt sleeves for more freedom of movement. His bow arm worked furiously, drawing lines of beauty and pain across the strings.

His _bow arm_.

John's teeth snapped shut and he marched across the room, his empty hand balled into a fist. The onlookers fixed him with curious stares. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded in a low, clenched voice when he reached the edge of the platform.

Gabriel’s eyes flew open as his exquisite music was cut off mid-phrase, and John felt a surge of remorse. Gabriel blinked several times before his eyes focussed on John. "It's not finished," he said, and frowned.

John eyed him with frustrated concern. “How long have you been playing?”

Gabriel looked around the room a little blankly, as if just noticing where he was standing. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. I thought you said you had to think.”

“I _was_ thinking,” Gabriel insisted, giving the bow a defiant _swish_ through the air.

“Here, stop that, give this to me,” John ordered, reaching for the bow. Gabriel relinquished both violin and bow to him without resistance, surprisingly enough, and John placed them gently in their case. He reached cautiously for Gabriel's wrist, his bow arm. It was swollen again, and John could feel the skin under the bandage was hot.  “Does it hurt?”

“More than I expected," Gabriel said. His face was still distant, dramatic and dark-eyed in blue light and shadow.

“Well, I'm hardly surprised. I've seen a lot of aggressive injury denial in my time, but this is the first time I've seen it done with a violin." John shook his head, prodding and twisting the wrist in a brisk and efficient inspection. "Yep, you’ve aggravated the injury, and you'll likely feel it even more tomorrow. Come upstairs. I’ll take care of it.”

“You can’t." Gabriel's voice was dull.

“What?”

"You can't take care of it. You can't fix it. _I_ can't fix it."

John raised his eyes from Gabriel's wrist to his face and made his voice mild."What are we talking about now?" _The brother? The police?_

"Why do you _care_ so much? Caring is _not_ an advantage," Gabriel said fiercely.

John snorted, and attempted a nonchalant shrug. "Well, too bad. It's…part of the service." He released Gabriel's wrist with a wry smile. "No extra charge."

Gabriel glared at him severely for the space of several long breaths. "Leave us," he barked over John's shoulder.

John startled, then turned his head and watched as the lingering hotel staff obeyed Gabriel's order and shuffled toward the lobby. He'd forgotten they were even there. The last man out closed the doors behind him.

Pulse pounding seemed to be John's natural state around Gabriel March. His intensity was as good as a jog across the park. Back when John was able to jog across the park. Now the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end…and that part never happened when he used to jog.

He licked his lips and nodded toward the now-closed lounge door. "Do people always do what you tell them—"

Gabriel spun him, pushed him back, back... His back hit the wall, knocking the breath out of him in a gasp. His cane clattered to the floor. Gabriel’s mouth was on his before the exhalation was finished, hot and insistent. He pinned John to the wall with his body, elbows on the wall on either side of John's head.

"I guess so,” John huffed as Gabriel's mouth moved to the side of his neck. "Oh," he slid his hands around Gabriel's lean waist and gasped as teeth nipped at his skin.

"John. I want you," Gabriel growled, pressing into him.

"I'm…getting that."

Gabriel was hard against his abdomen, sliding his hips and thighs against John's body, working the fine cloth of his suit trousers against John's pyjama bottoms. He slid his hand in between them, palmed John's growing erection through the soft, worn flannel, and dragged his mouth across John's jaw. "Inside me."

John's heart almost stopped. He felt his cock thickening under Gabriel's hand. "Oh, God. Are you…sure? Let's go upstairs and—"

"No," Gabriel insisted. "Here. Now." His hand dipped down to squeeze John's bollocks. He pressed his nose underneath John's ear. "Take me," he whispered. "Fuck me."

John made a sound that was far too close to a squeak. " _Right_ here?" He pushed Gabriel far enough away to look at his face. "We can't, we don't have—"

"My mouth. You want to. I've seen you looking."

John's eyes dropped immediately to his mouth, his full, wide mouth, and Gabriel licked his lips. John groaned out his name, "Gabriel…"

"I want it," Gabriel insisted, grinding his hips into John again, pushing his hand into the back of John's pyjama bottoms to squeeze a handful of his arse. John's body felt flushed with heat, but Gabriel's hand on his bare skin felt even hotter. "I want you."

In a smooth motion that ended with the bony thump of knees on wood, Gabriel dropped to the floor, pulling John's pyjama bottoms down to his thighs as he went. He wrapped an arm around John's hips and sucked his cock into his mouth. "Jesus!" John cried, throwing his head back until it hit the wall. "Oh, fuck." His hands flailed uselessly at his sides.

Gabriel licked him in sloppy, wet stripes, kissed his balls, tongued at his foreskin, bobbed his sleek, dark head up and down along his shaft, lapping and sucking at him awkwardly and furiously. His mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, hot and relentless.

"God, Gabriel," he breathed, barely able to remember how to form the words.

John's leg started to shake, and when he leaned his weight into the wall, Gabriel nipped at his thigh. " _Move_ , John." Gabriel stared up at him, mouth wet and eyes hungry. He grabbed John's hand and pulled it to the back of his head, fisted John's fingers into his hair. "I told you what I want. _Take_ it. _I want you to_."

Gabriel dove at him again, sucked in his cock and tried to swallow around the head. He choked, a horrible glottal, meaty sound. He pulled off and tried again.

"No," John gasped, gripping Gabriel's hair tightly in his hand, pulling his head away. "Not like that."

Gabriel growled around him as his mouth slid away, and John shuddered violently. "Why not?" he demanded, glaring at John's erection. "You want me. Obviously. You do want me."

"Jesus," John panted. He was so hard he was aching, but this was all…too much. "No."

Gabriel's expression shifted from frustration to dismay. His eyes dropped.

"Yes," John said quickly, "I want you. God. Just." John moved his other hand to Gabriel's head, held him firmly.

Gabriel closed his eyes and sighed. "You don't understand." He leaned forward and kissed John's cock, reached up and petted at the top of his thigh. "I want to. I need…I need…" He kissed again. Again. Looked up at John. "Please."

The insane giggle welled in John's throat again. This beautiful man. On his knees in front of _him_. Pleading. "Yeah." _God, yes._ John loosened his grip in Gabriel's hair, massaged his head with his fingertips. Breathed. Squeezed his eyes shut. Breathed again. Opened his eyes. "Like I say, then. All right? Like I say."

Gabriel's eyes lit. "Yes."

John drifted a gentle hand to the side of his jaw. "Open."

Gabriel opened his mouth slowly, stretching his tongue out just a little. John shuddered again, and a corner of Gabriel's mouth curved up.

John pushed his prick down. "Gently." He kept a hand in Gabriel's hair, not to push, just to hold him steady. "Oh, God, perfect. Yes, that thing with your tongue, do— _ohhh_ , that."

Feeling a purr of satisfaction from inside Gabriel's mouth increased John's sense of urgency dramatically.

"Suck now." He gave Gabriel's hair a warning tug. "Just there, just…yes."

With his lips still stretched around John, Gabriel looked up at him questioningly and moved his hand to cup John's balls again.

"Yes, that, _yes_ ," John murmured. His hips wanted to thrust at full force, wanted badly to do what Gabriel had demanded of him from the start. "Hold still. Just like that." _Small movements, just the head, just a little more, just halfway, that's all._ Gabriel closed his eyes and moaned, and both John's hands went to his hair as his hips moved faster. _Small, small, control._ He grunted with each thrust, little sounds of pained pleasure, while Gabriel's coaxing fingers followed the tightening of his balls.

Gabriel dropped his hand to John's thigh, dragged his fingertips straight up, nails teasing John's skin, under his t-shirt, found his nipple and pinched. John arched his back, shoving himself deeper into Gabriel's mouth. "Sorry,” he gasped.

Gabriel’s eyes rolled up to meet his. He grunted insistently around John's cock, swirled his tongue, and John groaned.

“Yes. Now. Now. I’m coming _now_ ,” John tried to warn him, pushing at him, but Gabriel closed his eyes and _sucked_. John's moan echoed in the acoustically focussed room, startlingly raw and loud, and now he couldn’t stop moving. His hips bucked forward and he came hard, pulse after pulse against the back of Gabriel’s throat.

John wasn't sure how his legs were still holding him up. His loosened his fingers from dark curls and found his breath in a giddy whimper.

Gabriel coughed, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Oh, God, too much? Too much? Are you al—“

Gabriel rose from his knees and pressed his mouth to John's before he could get the rest of the question out, licking into it deeply, earnestly. John tasted himself, salty and sour on Gabriel's tongue.

“Good, yes?” Gabriel rasped, his voice hitching, when he pulled away. His eyes searched John's face. “Good?”

 _Jesus._ John didn't think _good_ was the right word to describe what just happened. But it was the word Gabriel had chosen, so he repeated it back to him. “Yes,” he murmured, stroking Gabriel's hair, his chest, his arm, anything he could touch. "Good. You’re good.”

It was the right word. Gabriel melted into him. He pressed his face into John’s shoulder and shivered.

“You’re so good. You’re fine. You're good." Standing there with his pyjama bottoms still pushed down to his thighs, John wrapped his arms tightly around Gabriel and whispered the words against the back of his neck.

 

+++

 

When they returned to the suite, there was a fire going and a bucket of ice waiting on a silver trolley next to the dining table.

"That woman's a saint. You realize that, don't you?"

"She's good at her job," Gabriel agreed mildly, although he looked appreciative.

He let John tend to his wrist completely this time and swallowed his paracetamol without complaint. Once changed into his pyjamas, he returned to John in the sitting room and dutifully held a fresh ice pack to the wrist as he sat cross-legged on the sofa.

John leaned back against the opposite arm of the sofa, stretching his legs across the cushions between them, and looked at him curiously. Gabriel had been quiet since they'd come back upstairs, and he'd barely taken his eyes off John.

"You're staring," John finally pointed out.

"Yes." Gabriel nodded and visibly braced himself. "You've got questions."

John's eyebrows raised. As late as it was, and as relaxed as he probably should have been, post-orgasm, he was still keyed up, not ready to sleep. Yes, he had questions. He had a lot of questions. But Gabriel looked exhausted. "They can wait until morning," he offered, "which isn't too far off."

"I have one for you, but you have to ask yours first."

"And _yours_ can't wait until morning, I suppose?" John cocked his head, intrigued.

"No. Ask your questions."

"Anything?"

"Anything. If I don't wish to answer, I'll say as much."

John nodded his acquiescence and wriggled a little more comfortably into the sofa cushions. "Where did you find a violin?"

That surprised a smile out of Gabriel. " _That's_ what you want know?"

John shrugged. "It's my first question, yes."

Gabriel's posture relaxed. "It's mine. Obviously. I had it in the room."

"It was beautiful…what you were playing. I'm sure you know that. Of course you know that."

Gabriel dispelled the praise with a shake of his head. "That's not a question."

"When did your brother die?"

Gabriel looked down at his lap. "Two months ago."

"Were you close?"

"No." He frowned. "Not exactly."

"Who was that woman? In the photo?"

"Her name is Clare Golynski. She's the executive officer in charge of research and development at Klein Pharmaceuticals. You'll be familiar with the company, in your profession."

John nodded once.

"She's being blackmailed, manipulated in order to acquire certain information from her employer. I," Gabriel cleared his throat, "briefly posed as the blackmailer in order to find out more."

"More about…the information?"

"More about the blackmailer. Well, I already know who the _blackmailer_ is. What I don't know is who _his_ employer is."

"So. Not a date."

Gabriel smirked. "As I told Detective Inspector Lestrade…not my type."

"What is your type?"

"You're getting off topic."

"You said I could ask anything. Everything is on topic."

"This week it's short men with ludicrous striped underpants and an overabundance of ethics."

John snorted with amusement and disbelief. "I'm running quite low on ethics lately, actually."

"Who said I was talking about you?"

John grinned. "Fair point. What do you do?"

"I'm a detective."

John pursed his lips. "But you aren't working with the police."

"No."

A picture flashed into John's mind of the odd way DI Lestrade kept looking at him when he addressed Gabriel. " _Gabriel_ …is that your real name?"

"No."

John was quiet for several thoughtful moments. "The blackmailer. That's your current case?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"So…" John scratched at his chin absently. "The police are trying to stop her being blackmailed? Why don't you want to work with that DI?"

"The police are in my way."

"But isn't stopping the crime the most important thing here? Why can't you just tell them who the blackmailer is, if you know?"

"I just told you. I don't know who _he_ works for yet."

"I see." He frowned, reconsidered. "No, I don't. I still don't see why you wouldn't work with the police. I think…" John hesitated, remembering and considering the exchange at the Voltaire. It was only a guess, but… "In spite of all that glaring, I think you actually liked Lestrade. I know you were…thrown, but I think you _liked_ him." John raised his chin a little, challenging Gabriel to deny what he thought was a fairly keen insight on his part.

"It's irrelevant whether I like him or not, John. I will not let myself become emotionally involved in a case."

"Right. You haven't seemed _emotional_ at all."

Gabriel scowled. "Something's _wrong_ with me. I'm usually able to keep myself distant."

"Two months after your brother's death, you're feeling emotional, and you think that's…unusual?" John asked.

"I'm running out of time, John." There was a tremor under the controlled baritone.

"What does that mean?"

"On the case. I've…made mistakes. I don't make mistakes, John, but I've made them this time. I only have one real chance left. That's why I have a question for you."

"All right." John looked at him expectantly.

Gabriel swallowed. "Will you help?"

John held himself very still. "I thought you said I couldn't help."

"I didn't say that."

"You did. On the terrace."

"No, I asked _how_ you could. Now I know. So the question is… _will_ you?"

John felt like a matchstick had been struck down the centre of his chest, a tiny light of hope sizzling into being. But in a dark room, even the smallest light could be almost blinding. "Yes." His voice was hushed. "I will. Of course I will."

Gabriel didn't smile, but his eyes shone with satisfaction. "Sherlock."

John tilted his head quizzically. "What's that?"

"My name," he said, looking at John steadily, "is Sherlock Holmes."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! Sorry about that longer-than-usual posting delay. Tracks have been cleared, train is moving again.

"Wake up, John," a crisp voice directed. The order was punctuated by the snap of fabric as John's sheets and duvet were thrown to the far side of the mattress, exposing his sleep-sprawled form to a drift of cool air.

John dragged his cheek across the pillow case, the beginnings of stubble catching minutely on the fabric. "Z'time?" he grunted and blinked one eye up at his tall, tumble-haired accoster. Gabriel looked down at him with impatient eyes. John rolled over and gave him a lazy smile.

Blinked again.

Not Gabriel, _Sherlock_. Detective. Blackmail. _Lives at stake_.

He was abruptly fully awake, like a switch had been flipped on the back of his neck. A frisson of anticipation prickled his skin, a sense of _readiness_ he had not felt since Afghanistan. John pushed himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his face briskly. "Right. What's the plan? What are we doing?"

The purposeful tone of his questions was immediately undermined as he became aware of his morning erection making itself apparent from inside his pyjama bottoms. Rather perfunctory, but hardly business-like. He cleared his throat and pulled his knees in and a pillow onto his lap.

Sherlock dismissed John's groin with a wave of his hand. "Whatever you usually do in the mornings. Get up. Get on with it. I've been _waiting_." He was already showered and dressed in dark trousers and a light grey button-up, although his hair was still a mass of unruly curls and he wore a blue satin-striped dressing gown over his shirt.

"OK. Yeah. Of course." John swung himself out of bed, tossing his shield-pillow aside, and headed for the bathroom. "I'll be right there."

Since his return from Afghanistan, John sincerely appreciated the luxury of a leisurely shower, but this morning he showered at army speed, humming a non-specific, tuneless march under his breath as he washed. Once clean and shaved, he pulled on a pair of jeans and one of his new casual jumpers, a thick teal knit to combat what looked like dreary, cool weather outside. Nice-looking, but easy to move around in. His teeth clicked a quick rhythm as he pulled his socks on.

When he walked into the sitting room to double check the suitability of his attire for whatever kind of activity was planned, he discovered Sherlock lounging lengthwise across the sofa, still in his dressing gown, knees bent, his bony bare feet propped up on one arm rest. His eyes were closed and his hands resting on his chest, his left hand wrapped gently around his bandaged right wrist. The only change in his dress had been the addition of a blue cashmere scarf draped around his neck.

"I'm ready." John patted his jumper, bouncing on his heels. "Is this all right?"

"Tea, breakfast, over there," Sherlock jerked his head toward the dining table without opening his eyes.

John spared the waiting breakfast a disinterested glance. "Is there time?"

At that, Sherlock did turn his head to frown quizzically at John. "Of course there's time. Why wouldn't there be time?"

"All right," John nodded, squeezed his hands in and out of fists, and took a deliberately slow breath in an effort to settle some of his restless energy. He limped across the room toward tea. "All right. It's just you haven't actually _told_ me what we're meant to do today, Sherlock, so there's no _of course_ about it. Want to fill me in, then? At all? Over tea would be—what are you doing?"

Sherlock was off the sofa and across the room at John's side with a mere whisper of his silk gown. He grasped John's shoulder, turning him so they were face-to-face. "Say that again," he demanded, soft-voiced.

John opened his mouth and tried to recall what he had been saying. "While I get a cuppa, you fill me in—"

"No. Before that."

"I said you've not told me what—"

"Exactly as you said it, John."

John furrowed his brow in bewilderment, but repeated his previous sentence. "You haven't actually told me what you have planned for the day, Sherlock, so—"

Sherlock's fingers tightened on John's shoulder.

"—there's no of course..." John's voice slowed, trailed off. "Sherlock, what do you want—"

"Good," Sherlock nodded, his eyes dropping to John's mouth. "Again."

 _What--? Oh. No…really?_ "Sherlock." John's eyes widened at Sherlock's slowly-indrawn breath. He was entirely uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to laugh. "I did say it last night, you know. I must have done."

"Mm," Sherlock made an absent sound of acknowledgement and bent forward. He pressed his ear to John's chest and waited.

John made his voice low and steady. "Sherlock."

Sherlock straightened again and slowly lowered his lips to John's. His eyes remained open, watching John's face as he moved in. He pressed a light kiss to John's mouth, open but soft and undemanding, experimental.

"Sherlock," John whispered into the kiss, and Sherlock's tongue flicked into his mouth to catch the breath he exhaled after the second syllable of his name.

John decided he definitely did not feel at all like laughing.

Somewhere in the back of his sensation-flooded mind, he had been wondering since last night whether he would be dealing with the same man this morning. He had only started getting to know _Gabriel March_ —albeit rather intensely and in unexpected ways—but who was _Sherlock Holmes_?

Apparently Sherlock Holmes shared at least one pleasing similarity with Gabriel March—he was still attracted to John Watson. And apparently he was also attracted to the sound of his own name. As behavioural quirks went, John had no complaint to make about either one at the moment.

He pressed himself up for a deeper kiss and his hands found their way to Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock," he murmured, this time for his own sake. An acknowledgement. He scrunched a handful of curls, pulled one out and let it spring back into its crescent shape. "I like it like this."

"Do you?" Sherlock pulled away from the kiss slowly and blinked at down at John, expression unreadable. Then he turned away and spoke as though nothing had interrupted their conversation. "I already told you. I'm waiting." He walked briskly back to the sofa and tipped himself onto the cushions, slouching into his prior position.

"Waiting." Off-balance yet again, John turned back to the dining table. "I thought you meant…waiting for me."

" _Without_ you. It was boring." Sherlock shut his eyes again.

"I see. That's what I'm helping with." He sighed and plucked the silver cover from the single plate waiting on the table. "Waiting." Toast, sides of strawberry jam and butter, and several strips of bacon. An exact duplicate of his choices from the previous morning. He stared at it for several moments. "Am I to assume you've already eaten?"

"If you like."

John sat heavily and ate in silence. It wasn't until he was finishing his last bite of toast that Sherlock spoke again.

"You're disappointed," he observed.

"No, it was very good," John replied gamely, knowing full well Sherlock wasn't talking about the breakfast any more than John was thinking of it. Yes, he was disappointed, but that was hardly Sherlock's fault, he supposed. Sherlock hadn't promised he'd be seeing _action_. He hadn't even suggested it. Wishful thinking. He should know better.

So. Another sitting down kind of day. It would be fine.

John poured a cup of tea and then, glancing over at Sherlock, a second cup and carried both to the sofa.

Sherlock swung his long legs to the floor to sit up to accept the tea and make room for John to sit down. "You were expecting something else?" He watched John out of the corner of his eye as John sat beside him. "More shopping, perhaps?"

John chuckled softly. "Uh, no. I guess…I thought…" He ducked his head for a sip of tea. "I don't know. Never mind."

Sherlock set his own tea down on the side table and tugged at his scarf with a frown, pulling it more snugly around his neck.

John crooked an eyebrow at him. "Glad you like it."

"It's warm." He tucked his chin down into the scarf defensively, one hand drifting up to tug at a strand of hair curling over his ear.

"If you're cold, we could have a fire."

Sherlock gave him a prim look. "That won't be necessary."

"Well," John leaned back with a sigh, "what are we waiting _for_ , then?"

Sherlock wheeled around to lean against the arm of the sofa, frown clearing immediately. He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed the soles of his feet proprietarily against the side of John's thigh. "Two things. Clare Golynski will acquire Klein Pharma's _special_ orders list from her employer _tonight_ and arrange a meeting to transfer that information to her blackmailer. Ms Golynski and I have made an agreement she will contact me as to the time and location of that meeting."

John took another swallow of tea and dropped a hand to rest on the top of Sherlock's bare foot. "So we're going to be there, too? To stop it?" he asked hopefully.

"That I would be there was the original plan." Sherlock flexed and curled his toes against John's leg. "Not to stop it, but in the hope of finding out more about who was behind it. A long shot, but a worthwhile one."

"And the plan now?"

"Now that Detective Inspector _Lestrade_ ," Sherlock's nose crinkled with distaste, "has gotten some inkling of Ms Golynski's involvement, his surveillance of her will interfere with any positive outcome for that scenario. He may very likely apprehend the blackmailer and I cannot allow that to happen."

"You…want to keep him from being arrested so that you'll still be able to track down _his_ employer through him."

"Exactly."

"Wouldn't the police be able to find that out once they'd arrested him, though?"

Sherlock shot him a disparaging look.

"OK." John rested his cup on his other thigh. "What's the second thing?"

"A call. From Philip Spencer."

"Who is that?"

"The blackmailer."

John's tea cup bobbled precariously as he looked quickly up at Sherlock, who had a wickedly delighted little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Are... _you_ being blackmailed?" John asked, bristling defensively even though Sherlock looked far from concerned.

"No. Spencer and I—or rather Spencer and _Gabriel March_ —have an arrangement regarding…another matter."

John set his tea aside. "What matter?"

"He is coordinating Gabriel March's purchase of confidential information from another company. He'll be calling to arrange a meeting. An exchange between myself and the seller."

"So you're…his client."

"Yes."

"Confidential information. Like…the information Clare Golynski is handing over? I don't understand."

"Something like that," Sherlock said mildly.

John rubbed a hand through his hair. "Is this still to do with tracking down who he works for?"

"Philip Spencer facilitates high-level, high-risk information exchange. He provides neither the funding nor the information itself, but the connections are made through him. He's a go-between, but that's all he is. Someone else is pulling the strings, selecting the deals to arrange, and benefitting from the results."

"So you got yourself…Gabriel…in on one of these deals?" John's gaze drifted to his lap, unfocussed, as he considered the influx of new information. He tilted his head back up as a thought occurred. "Wait. Who is _your_ client?"

Sherlock's smile faded. "I don't have one."

"Don't detectives usually have a client?"

"I don't have one _anymore_."

"Then why are you still…" John watched Sherlock's expression become grim and guarded. "It's your brother, isn't it? Your brother was your client."

Sherlock nodded once. "It was he, through his own channels, who first realized the connection between a seemingly unrelated set of events. But he didn't have the time or the resources to pursue it. It was of interest to him, but only as a…minor curiosity."

John's fingers curled more firmly around Sherlock's foot, rubbed in a small, soothing circle. "So he hired you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He thought I needed…I was…" He shook his head again, more vigorously, like he was trying to flick something out of his hair. "I wasn't interested. And now…it's important, John. It's important I finish this. Do you see?" He pressed his lips together, hard, and looked at John earnestly.

"Yeah." John stroked the arch of Sherlock's foot lightly, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palm. He thought of the army, of friends and strangers alike blown apart, shot, or just gone missing, and every one of them had plans. Simple or significant, for the evening, or the next day, or the next year, all those hopes and plans and stories lost in the sand, drifting away. "I do, actually."

They exchanged a long look.

"So we're waiting." John pushed himself up, standing, struck by a thought as to how to pass the time. "I'll be right back. Getting my laptop."

"What for?"

John licked his lips. Maybe he could, in his small way, preserve a few of those grains of sand. "I have an idea."

 

+++

 

The door closed behind Mrs Hudson, departing the room with her silver trolley after having cleared away the dishes from John's dinner. John had successfully coaxed Sherlock into eating his chocolate parfait even after Sherlock had eaten half his portion of ginger chicken, and returned to his laptop looking vastly smug.

With the fire on for the evening, Sherlock was now warmed both inside and out and feeling uncomfortable with the sensation. He'd had to remove his scarf. It had lost its John-smell, anyway. He would have to find a way to reinfuse it. Perhaps John would sleep in it. He could easily picture it as an accessory to what was apparently his usual sleepwear, picture the ends of his grey-blond-brown hair brushing the blue cashmere, soft on soft.

He paced the room to ward off the feelings of contentment that threatened him. "Are you ready to hear about the engine formula yet?" he demanded, leaning across back of the sofa to frown over John's shoulder at the letters creeping agonizingly slowly across his computer screen.

"Not…yet…" John answered, tapping at a few more keys.

"I thought you said you could _type_ ," Sherlock accused.

John blinked up at him guilelessly, lifting his index fingers from the keyboard. "I _am_ typing."

"I'm getting _bored_ , John."

He wasn't actually bored at all. Not really, not like he was _supposed_ to be after almost an entire day spent in the absence of acceptable stimuli. Three things made his brain sing: cocaine, music, and the work. Three things he could immerse himself in completely. Three things, at least for the moment, denied to him. Behind John's back, Sherlock's hand drifted to the crook of his elbow, remembering the bliss, however temporary, of _not-bored_.

Except he wasn't bored. Yet he wasn't _not-bored_. This was something new.

"You didn't have to go along with this, you know," John reminded him. "I told you, the blog is just an idea."

"No, it's…fine. Keep typing," Sherlock said quickly, "or whatever it is you call what you're doing." He'd been relating details of both his current case and several past cases alike to John throughout the day, pausing only for meals, tea, and John's irritating retreat to the bedroom to make a call to his sister. John's appreciation for his leaps of intellect had been gratifying enough that he hadn't even minded having to explain some of the deductions multiple times so John got the details right. "You really think people will be interested?"

" _I'm_ interested," John said matter-of-factly. "So, yes, I expect other people will be, too. But like I said, I can start the blog for you, and you can decide whether you want to keep it up. You know…document any other cases."

"Do you keep a blog?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because nothing happens to me," John said. "Now…almost done with this part…have you thought of what you'll call it?"

"The Science of Deduction," Sherlock announced with a flourish.

"Mm," John said drily, "that sounds riveting."

Sherlock glared at the back of John's head, but his intended retort was cut off when his mobile rang. John turned on to look at him, alert and expectant, as he pulled the phone from his dressing gown pocket. He checked the caller ID and nodded to John. "Spencer."

He let the Gabriel persona settle over him again and pressed the talk button. "Gabriel March."

"Hello, Gabriel!" Spencer's voice was treacle. Sherlock could almost see the leer. "It's all set. Friday night. The London Coliseum."

"The opera?" Sherlock asked with a glance at John, whose forehead crinkled.

"Why, I thought you'd enjoy the performance," Spencer said, all graciousness.

Sherlock turned away from John. "Mixing business with pleasure?"

"Of course. I've always been in favour of mixing business with pleasure, after all. I'm having a ticket sent to your hotel."

"Two tickets," Sherlock interjected.

Spencer was silent for a moment. "A date? Really, Gabriel, I’m _dreadfully_ jealous."

"There's no need," Sherlock said, chuckling. "A practical matter. I've had a minor injury. Minor but damned inconvenient, and my assistant has proven helpful. He's rather dull-witted, though, so I should be able to slip away easily." He turned to lift an eyebrow at John, who sent two fingers back at him. "And surely two attendees would be less…noticeable? I don't want to draw attention."

"You're too modest, Gabriel. A man like you would draw attention in any scenario."

"A predicament I'm sure you're familiar with as well. Philip."

"Oh, you _are_ such a delight," Spencer chuckled. "I am so looking forward to our…rendezvous."

"Our contact will meet us there?"

"She'll be there. You've no cause for concern. Just go to the bank and get ready, my dear. Then rest your pretty head and dream of your triumph. Morse's jugular is exposed and it's time for the kill."

Sherlock looked to John after he ended the call. "That's one." His skin prickled with energy.

John was giving him a curious, considering look. "Were you…flirting with him?"

"Don't be absurd, John. The man is a sociopath." Sherlock turned his face away as he dropped his phone on the table next to the sofa. He had, obviously, not related to John the little detail of Spencer's anticipated upcoming attempt on his life. He diverted his attention quickly, "How do you like the opera?" 

John made a leery face. "Er, not very well so far. That's where this…exchange is taking place?"

"Apparently so. In two evenings' time." He'd been half-dreading the conclusion of this case, had almost considered that Spencer might beat him, given his troublingly distracted state of mind in the recent past. There was something about the _imminence_ of the danger that had already begun to work its magic. He could feel his blood start to thrum, feel his vision start to sharpen again.

"Two evenings. More waiting, then?" John stretched his back and rose from the sofa, grabbing his cane and empty cup to cross the room to the tea tray Mrs Hudson had left on the dining table.

"Not necessarily," said Sherlock, following John to the table and picking up a scone. He examined the pattern of tiny crevasses across its golden-brown surface before dropping it back on its plate. "Spencer will have chosen the opera house, that location, that time, for a _reason_." There was so much to be done in just two days' time. Why _that_ venue? Who was the contact from Morse? Was Spencer expecting to do away with them both together? How? He had neglected so many details, but now… _now_ it was time to perform.

"He likes the opera?" John asked lightly.

"John, can you fight?" Sherlock asked abruptly, pivoting toward him, pulse thumping.

John looked around the room. "And…who am I meant to fight?"

"I have to be certain you can take care of yourself."

John put his tea cup down carefully. "I can take care of myself."

Sherlock gave him a sceptical look. "You're a doctor."

"And a soldier," John reminded him tersely. He glanced down at his hand on the handle of the cane and tightened his grip.

Sherlock closed the short distance between them slowly. "Prove it."

"What are you doing?" John's eyes darkened as Sherlock pressed into his space.

He _did_ have to be certain, after all. He couldn't allow John to risk himself. And if he was already certain, _completely_ certain, that John was capable of defending himself, well… "I said _prove it_." With a sharp movement, he pulled the cane out of John's hand and threw it aside.

"What the hell? I don't want to hurt you," John warned. He had dropped his body weight, centred himself, relaxed into a ready stance automatically, Sherlock noted with approval.

"Try," Sherlock said darkly. He swung his left hand in a wide arc toward John, with no specific target but with sufficient speed and force that the intent to strike was clear. 

His blow did not connect.

His right foot went out from under him and he felt an impact to his left shoulder. The ceiling swung into view, and his training in the fighting arts gusted from him in a loud _whuff_ of breath as he hit the floor. John straddled his thigh, one knee between his legs, pinning him even while one hand cradled Sherlock's right wrist from impact.

"Cane or no cane, I can still take you," he leaned over Sherlock's body and murmured close to his ear, his breath moist and warm, " _Sherlock_."

Oh. That was _cheating_. The name wasn't playing fair and John was changing the rules and _cheating_. Sherlock's eyes widened with appreciation. _Extraordinary_. "John," he breathed, pushing his hips up. Four things. Four things could make his brain sing. His _skin_ sing. "You understand."

"Next time you try a stunt like that, it's your nose." John growled, eyes alight, and leaned in further to kiss him, hard.

 _And wonderful_. Sherlock reached for the bottom of John's jumper, tugging at it to get to the skin underneath. John released his wrist and reached in between their bodies, targeting Sherlock's trousers for removal. Sherlock hitched his hips again and pressed himself shamelessly into John's palm.

John laughed into the side of his neck, kissed. "Keen, are we?"

"Move your hand, John," Sherlock insisted, yanking John's vest free from his jeans. And there, _skin_ , at last.

"Bedroom," John replied, his voice catching in between a growl and a giggle. His eyes were warm, confident.

"Too far. Here." Sherlock wriggled his hips against John's frustratingly-still hand.

"What if Mrs Hudson—"

"She won't," Sherlock assured him, straining up to nip at the John's neck. "John, will you sleep in the scarf?"

There was a knock at the door.

John froze, staring in horror toward the entryway. "You have _got_ to be joking," he gasped.

"Buggering fucking bugger!" Sherlock snarled, which John seemed to find amusing enough to drop his head and giggle insanely into Sherlock's chest. "GO AWAY!" he bellowed.

The knock repeated, more insistently.

John rolled off him, gorgeously flushed and laughing, and Sherlock groaned his despair. "Bedroom. Go. I'll get rid of her," John assured him.

Sherlock righted himself and strode uncomfortably into the bedroom, fumbling impatiently at the buttons on his shirt.

"Not _now_ , Mrs Hudson," he heard John call out, and then the sound of the suite door opening and, "Oh."

"Mr…Watson, was it? I need to see him." Detective Inspector Lestrade's voice was low and fatigued, but firm. "There's been a development."


	8. Chapter 8

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," John announced in a voice he hoped would carry into the bedroom to Sherlock.

"I need to speak with…Gabriel. Right away." Lestrade's jaw was set with determination, but he also looked haggard.

John sighed away visions of dark curls bouncing against white sheets. "I suppose you'd better come in, then. _Sherlock_ ," he called. Lestrade gave him a sharp, surprised look as he walked past into the suite. This time he'd brought a whole _set_ of file folders, and he shuffled them in his hands restlessly as John waved him toward the sitting area.

Several moments later, Sherlock strode through the doorway from the bedroom, glaring magnificently. He had replaced his dressing gown with a suit jacket and his flush of passion with a haughty sneer. "I thought I made my lack of interest in your concerns clear last night, Inspector," he clipped out. "Why are you here?"

Lestrade glanced at John. "I think we should speak alone."

"Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Dr Watson." Sherlock gestured John firmly toward the sofa.

Lestrade's brows rose. "Really?" He stared openly at John while he took his seat.

Sherlock frowned, following Lestrade's speculative gaze. "What?"

"It's just that Mycroft said…you didn't have any…that you don't have…" He looked back and forth between John and Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I don't have _what_?"

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." He took a breath, collecting himself. "There's been a disappearance, possibly an abduction."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged his blatant disinterest and then turned to John and said through clenched teeth, " _Why_ did you let him _in_?"

"For God's sake, will you at least just _listen_?" Lestrade's voice rose, sharp with desperation. "Just… _listen_."

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

Sherlock glanced at John's solemn expression and exhaled a frustrated sigh. He seated himself with painstaking grace onto the sofa next to John and crossed one leg over the other in a languid pose, casting Lestrade a painfully bored look. "Please, _do_ proceed to fascinate me, Inspector."

While Lestrade settled himself into the burgundy chair opposite, pulling the padded ottoman over to spread out his file folders, John brushed his fingertips surreptitiously against Sherlock's leg in a gesture of approval at his concession. Sherlock pretended not to notice the touch.

Lestrade opened a folder to a copy of a security badge photo of a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, dark-haired and wearing an uncomfortable, shy half-smile. John thought him just on the pleasant side of average-looking but for large, soulful brown eyes that gave his face a compelling magnetism.

Lestrade pressed a finger to the photo. "This is Richard Brook. He disappeared from his flat early this morning."

Sherlock's eyes brushed across the photo and back up to Lestrade's face. "You said possibly an abduction."

"Yeah, he had a date sleeping over. She called it in. Woke up to what sounded like a struggle in the outer room, heard a shout, but didn't see anything. Brook was gone by the time she came out of the bedroom. Door to the flat left open, chair overturned."

"How dreadful," Sherlock sighed, clearly unimpressed. John thought he could detect a subtle sharpening of interest in his eyes, though, which had drifted back to the ID photo. "And what does any of this have to do with me?"

Lestrade's heel started to thump against the floor, a tattoo of nervous energy, and he looked at Sherlock intently. "I think…I might be mad, but…Clare Golynski," he raked a hand through his greying hair, "I think there's a connection."

Sherlock raised his chin slowly. "I'm listening."

Lestrade brought to the front of his stack of papers a gruesome photo of what had once been a young woman. What remained of her torn and filthy clothing was a black vinyl miniskirt, a red lace bra, and one red stiletto-heeled shoe. She was fair-skinned and quite thin, but her body was bloated, the visible flesh striped with dark purple welts. "Marie Watts, 26 years old. Her body was discovered last week in a skip in King's Cross."

"A…prostitute?" John asked, eyeing the woman's injuries with a thick swallow of sympathy.

"A clinical research scientist. At Klein Pharmaceuticals. Reporting, indirectly, to Clare Golynski." Lestrade sat back and gave Sherlock a significant look.

Sherlock waved Lestrade on.

"Klein Pharmaceuticals." Lestrade rifled through another folder, pulled out a sheet of paper. "Bering Tech. Rubicon. Corporations rumoured to be on the verge of making or already having made significant technological or research breakthroughs."

"Yes. I read the papers," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Yeah, _and_ ," Lestrade moved the photo of Marie Watts' body and spread out several sets of papers clipped together along with photographs, "each one has _also_ recently had an employee turn up dead."

"These are large organizations, in most cases, Inspector." Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to look at the photos. "People die. The odds that some of them worked at these corporations are hardly low."

"No. No, they aren't. And the causes of death have all been different. Marie Watts, tarted up, whipped, and suffocated. David Theophanus, tortured to death in his garden shed, Clarissa Finch, flayed alive in a restaurant kitchen. The only similarities have been that each of the crime scenes has ultimately given us fuck all by way of leads and that," Lestrade took a deep breath, " _every one_ of these people had access in some way to confidential information at their companies."

Sherlock eased himself back in his seat, assessing Lestrade through half-lowered lids.

"And," John ventured, "you think this Richard Brook is the next victim?" He slid his gaze to Sherlock, waiting for his reaction, uncertain of how this all fit into the details Sherlock had shared with him, or with what he had planned as Gabriel March.

Lestrade pointed at the security badge photo again. "Richard Brook works in IT at Morse Industries, who are touting some kind of new body armour under development. I…it's a hunch. Right now, that's all it is but…it's not a coincidence. It _can't_ be."

"It _could_ be," Sherlock said.

"It isn't, though, is it?" Lestrade held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

Finally Sherlock flicked an eyebrow up and pulled one corner of his mouth into a half-smile. "Probably not."

Relief lit Lestrade's face so blatantly that John felt a rush of empathy with the man, and exhaled his own expectantly-held breath.

Lestrade leaned forward intently. "Will you help?"

Sherlock assumed a magnanimous expression. "Of course. How could I refuse?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Pretty easily, from what I've seen of you so far. But… thank you. Really. So what can you tell me?"

"I assume you've been through Brook's flat?" Sherlock scooped the folders up from the ottoman and began rapidly sorting through them, discarding papers haphazardly onto the floor as he deemed the majority of Lestrade's careful notes unworthy of his attention.

"I took a look myself this afternoon, on my own time," he shrugged, "but it's not even an official disappearance yet. I don't have the time or the resources to allocate."

"Mm, that's been happening a lot. They always stay just under the radar."

"Who does?" Lestrade frowned as he leaned over to pick up a file folder that had landed atop his shoe. "And what do you mean _happening a lot_?"

"So you're hoping I'll visit the flat, I assume?" Sherlock sniffed, thumbing through the last folder in his stack, the one on Richard Brook.

"That's exactly what I was hoping," Lestrade addressed Sherlock, followed by a grunt of thanks to John, who had bent down to help him retrieve the scattered papers.

John gave him a small but supportive smile in return, feeling responsible—and just a bit smug—for Sherlock's new willingness to assist, as he handed over the files he'd collected.

"If I've missed anything there, from what I've heard about your eye for detail, _you_ won't." Lestrade straightened and continued, "I was also hoping—"

"—my involvement with Clare Golynski's blackmail would yield information useful to your investigation, yes. I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there, Detective Inspector. I know little more than you seem to know at this point."

John blinked at the casual lie.

"We still have her under surveillance," Lestrade said. "We think we'll be getting a look at her blackmailer soon, but if there's a connection to Brook's abductor, it may be too late by then to do us any good in helping him."

"I'd suggest you continue in that effort, Inspector," Sherlock directed. "Although I doubt the blackmail is directly connected to the murders. From what I've gleaned from Ms Golynski, she's simply a woman living beyond her means and not burdened by scruples in the matter of attaining additional cash. That one of her employees has turned up dead may be the one happy coincidence in your case files."

Lestrade peered down at his folders, looking confused. "But—"

John bit down on his lip, equally confused.

"Detective Inspector, as delighted as I'd be to discuss the finer points, is this really the time? As you have been fond of pointing out, a man's life may be at stake. Time is of the essence." Sherlock stood and gave his suit jacket a tug for emphasis.

Following his lead, Lestrade rose as well. "I have a car waiting."

Sherlock nodded toward the file he had kept as he moved to shepherd Lestrade toward the door with a hand to his back. "Brook's address is there. We'll follow shortly."

"Thank you," Lestrade said, turning at the door with a little bow and a small smile of gratitude.

After the Detective Inspector had taken his leave, John turned to Sherlock, spreading his hands in appeal and unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. "You _know_ who the blackmailer is, you said. Why did you lie? Why didn't you tell him about Philip Spencer?"

"All in good time, John," Sherlock said, retrieving his coat from the entry cupboard and tossing John's new bomber jacket at him.

"But," John shrugged into the jacket as he spoke, "if this poor sod's life is in danger, why would you hold something like that back?"

Sherlock shot an enormous, lopsided smile over his shoulder at John, and in spite of his misgivings, John felt his heart flip over. "Doctor, your ethics are showing again."

"Sherlock, not wanting a man to die is not a… _remarkable_ display of ethics, it's the _proper amount_ of ethics." John pulled on his gloves. "Wait...what's the name of that company that you're meant to be buying information from?"

"Richard Brook's life is not in danger, John. I _promise_ you that." On the table beside the sofa, Sherlock's phone chimed. He crossed the room and plucked it up, looked at the screen, and smiled again. "Lestrade's not as stupid as I thought. He hasn't got the whole story, and he's come to the wrong conclusions, but he's not stupid. He sees the connections, he just hasn't been able to draw the lines in yet."

"So you… _do_ think there's a connection? You said there wasn't one."

"Of _course_ there's a connection." Sherlock's voice was gleefully impatient. "Hurry _up_ , John."

"I'm coming…going…Jesus," John barely managed to grab his cane as Sherlock propelled him toward the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried.

John almost stumbled. "You said _hurry_!"

Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom and returned clutching his new blue scarf, which he placed around John's neck, tucking it into his coat collar awkwardly with his left hand. "There," he nodded firmly, beaming down at his handiwork. "Ready?" he asked, completely contradictorily.

_Mad_. John looked up into Sherlock's manically bright eyes, and thrills chased through his body. "You're certain? About Richard Brook. Not in danger."

"Absolutely certain," Sherlock confirmed.

"You'll explain, then, on the way?"

Sherlock smiled.

 

+++

 

Their destination was not far, and it was easy—and extremely pleasurable—to distract John from tedious explanations with a vigorous snogging during the taxi ride. Before they'd left the room, John's pulse had already been up, his cheeks already flushed. If there weren't work to be done, Sherlock would have had him back on the floor, hearing his name in John's ragged gasps and moans. Even as John made little noises into his mouth now, Sherlock's body stirred in response, a low hum of contentment under the symphony of his thoughts. Finally, _finally_ , his brain was making music again.

He kissed John harder, sliding a hand along his thigh, along the leg that pained him. _Psychosomatic. I can fix that._ _I can fix everything._

The driver cleared her throat significantly, breaking their mutual absorption. The taxi had come to a halt some moments ago.

"We're here," Sherlock said against John's mouth. He was pleased at the number of blinks it took John to focus on their surroundings once more.

"Sorry," John directed a sheepish grin at the cabbie, who responded with a vaguely amused _oh-I've-seen-much-worse_ eye roll as Sherlock paid the fare.

The night's chill travelled down Sherlock's spine as they stepped onto the pavement. It had stopped raining, but the air still felt damp. The smells of the street were amplified—exhaust fumes, curry, stale beer, soapy cologne, coffee, metal—delicious and repulsive, vibrant and _alive_. He drew in a long, greedy breath through his nose.

John shivered, leaning on his cane while he looked at the buildings on their side of the street. "Which one's Brook's?"

"None of them." Sherlock checked the building numbers and headed for the one marked 98, four storeys of white brick set over a kitchen wares shop. He smiled at John. "We have another stop to make first."

Inside, he made his way, with John trailing behind on the stairs, to the top storey and knocked on the door of the flat marked C. "Miss Hooper, it's all right. It's the police."

"What—" John spoke behind him and Sherlock waved a quieting hand by his side.

The door opened.

Molly Hooper's eyes were red-rimmed and wide with apprehension. She clutched a ruffled lavender cardigan tightly around her small frame. Her long brown hair was tangled near the ends—she'd been worrying it for some time.

Sherlock pulled Lestrade's police badge from his coat pocket and flashed it at her. As anticipated, she barely glanced at it. "Detective Inspector Edwards, Miss Hooper. We're sorry to bother you at this hour, but DI Lestrade asked me to have a word with you."

Her eyes shifted nervously between Sherlock and John several times before locking on Sherlock's. "DI Lestrade sent you?" She sniffled and blinked.

Since the Inspector's name seemed to give her some small measure of reassurance, Sherlock repeated it. "Yes, DI Lestrade. He's hard at work on the case, but there are a few more questions we need to ask you. May we come in?"

"I…yes, I suppose so," she smiled shakily and stepped back to allow them entry.

Sherlock swept an assessing glance over her flat. Untidy but not unclean. Softly-lit. She lived alone. Family photos on the bookshelves—parents, probably dead, their pictures were all at least ten years old, judging by their hair and clothes. Sister in Australia. Socks under the sofa. Surfaces scattered with romance novels and science journals. Stack of DVDs by the telly, dramas, romantic comedies. A black dress crumpled in a heap in the seat of one armchair—her discarded date dress. Her phone and a small pile of dampened tissues rested on the coffee table along with a mug of tea, still steaming slightly.

She drew two deep breaths in an effort to collect herself, and achieved only a marginal success. Still skittish. Most likely an aspect of her usual personality—people tended to amplify their natural tendencies under stress. He stole a glance at John, who was glowering at him in silence next to one of Molly Hooper's pink and green flowered armchairs. 

"Detective Inspector Lestrade was very kind to me this morning," she said. "I told him everything I could remember. I didn't see anything, you know, so I'm not sure what more I can tell you."

_Lie._

"Do have a seat, Miss Hooper," Sherlock gestured her to the chair closest him, and she sat dutifully, hands clasped tightly in her lap. "What time did you get the call?"

Her face paled visibly. "What call?"

"The call from Richard Brook's kidnapper," Sherlock said calmly. In his peripheral vision he saw John's posture shift into alertness.

"How did you know?" Her voice had dropped to a halting whisper. "He _said_ don't call the police again. I _didn't_."

"It's all right, Miss Hooper." Sherlock dropped to one knee, gentling his manner and reducing the influence of his height.  This one didn't seem to need the additional intimidation. "You've done nothing wrong. We know you received the call. We know what they want you to do."

"You do?"

"Morse Industries' new aramid synthetic? You're to acquire the specifications."

"And a sample," she added, nodding, already eager to unburden herself of secrets.

"You can do it?"

"Yes," she breathed, wide-eyed.

"Good," Sherlock rumbled approval at her. "Very good.

"Are…you _want_ me to do it?"

Sherlock nodded gravely. "Until we have a better lead on the kidnapper, we think it best you proceed as instructed. Did your caller provide proof of life?"

"The picture?" she asked, then leaned over to get her phone. Her face grew even more pinched as she brought up a photo. She flipped the screen toward Sherlock.

"May I?" He held out his hand and she placed the phone in it. As John leaned in to get a better look, Sherlock examined the photo closely—a man, tied to a plain wooden chair, head lolling to one side, in a mostly-darkened room. A weak overhead light source illuminated a face that was clearly Richard Brook's, just as he appeared in his Morse Industries ID photo, with the addition of a copious amount of blood on his face and white vest.

Sherlock only remembered at the last moment not to laugh.

He forwarded the photo to his own mobile before returning Miss Hooper's phone to her hand.

"Do you think he'll…get through this?" she asked, staring at the picture, her forehead creased with worry.

"Yes, it must be difficult to see someone you—" Sherlock glanced once more at the array of romance novels. _Sentiment_. "— _love_ in such a state, but we're hopeful, Miss Hooper. We're all very hopeful." He stood, looking toward the door. They would still have to go by Brook's flat, he supposed, to maintain the illusion for Lestrade.

"I…don't love him," she said in an odd tone.

Sherlock brought his attention back to her. Some colour had returned to her cheeks. "Care for him," he amended, brow creasing.

"It was only our third date. I…I was going to break it off. It…wasn't working."

"Then why—" Sherlock began, confused. _Why would you care so much what happens to him?_ He glanced past her to John, who was watching her with an inexplicable look of understanding. Sherlock frowned. "Then…we…nevertheless, we'll need to ask you to continue going through the motions of meeting the kidnapper's demands, following his instructions. Mr Brook will be safe from any serious harm as long as you do."

Molly nodded resolutely. "If that's what needs to be done."

He jerked his head toward the door, signalling John. "We'll be in touch soon, Miss Hooper."

Once back on the pavement outside, Sherlock allowed himself to unfurl from his impression of humble, hard-working police officer. A wide grin spread across his face. He felt like dancing. "John, you did well. Really well."

He turned and, yes, John was still behind him. He didn't look quite as happy as Sherlock felt.

"That poor girl," he said grimly.

"What? Oh. Molly Hooper. Yes. Terrible." He wanted to tell John about the picture of Richard Brook, because it was Christmas. _Christmas_.

John frowned. "What do you mean I _did well_? I didn't do _anything_. I didn't say a word."

"Exactly," Sherlock said pleasantly. "It's best you say as little as possible."

"Fantastic, thanks a lot. What would I even say anything about? I've no idea what the hell you're doing. Where did you get that badge?"

"I…acquired it from Lestrade at the hotel. Thought it might come in handy. And don't be like that, I simply mean that you're a poor liar."

John scowled. "I'm _not_ …what makes you even think that? You think I've lied to you?"

"Yes." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "This morning."

"What?"

"You said you weren't disappointed with me." The pang Sherlock felt when he said it aloud took him completely by surprise, dampening his euphoria. He closed his hand around the phone in his pocket, with its image of Richard Brook, bloody and bowed. _It's not real. He's an actor. I know why we're going to the opera. Look, John. It's just stage make-up. Look at me._

"No." John drew his head back slightly. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Yes."

Sherlock took the mobile from his pocket. 

"Yes, I _was_ disappointed, Sherlock, but not _with you_. I just thought…when you asked me to help you…you meant something more than…" He trailed off, shrugging, and looked down at his feet.

"You're still disappointed," Sherlock said. A fact. An inevitability.

John raised his eyes again. "I thought when you asked me to help, you meant something more than _watching_ you play whatever game it is you're playing."

_But that does help._

"I want to believe we're doing something useful here. I want to trust you. God knows why. I see," John gestured toward Molly Hooper's flat, "I see that _you_ are a _good_ liar. I'm confused as hell, but I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

Sherlock pushed the phone back into his pocket. He would save it. He would save the photo for when John might be a bit more appreciative of how the end justified the means. "We need to move on to Brook's flat. Lestrade will wonder what's keeping us." They would find nothing there, of course. Sherlock turned to look for a taxi.

John seized Sherlock's coat lapel and started to pull.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock said, startled but allowing himself to be manoeuvred.

"Come here," John muttered, hauling him toward the alcove doorway of a shop closed for the night. When they reached the doorway, John took a step backward onto the entry step so that his back was against the door, bringing his height just above Sherlock's. He kept his fist curled into Sherlock's coat and, leaning his cane against the wall, thrust his other hand in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back.

Sherlock felt heat flow to his groin, the same burn he'd felt pinned to the floor of their hotel room. _Manhandled_.

"Kiss me," John ordered, with no answering signs of arousal.

Sherlock looked into John's stern face and complied immediately, leaning into him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Their lips met.

John's kiss was deep and searching.

"Tell me I can trust you," he said roughly against Sherlock's mouth.

"You can trust me," Sherlock repeated John's words.

John kissed him again. "Tell me you're going to help these people."

" _We're_ going to help," Sherlock said, because John wanted to help.

John pulled him closer, as close together as their coats would allow them to be.  "You can't lie with your body," he murmured into Sherlock's ear, letting his teeth graze Sherlock's jaw. "Tell me again."

_Oh, John. Of course you can._

He tilted his head up and pressed into John's kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

"Polo?" John asked dubiously.

"A charity match. Last one of the season," Sherlock explained, focussed on wrangling his wayward curls into Gabriel March's slicked-back style. His wrist was freshly bandaged and he was dressed in a crisp white button-up and suit trousers.

John leaned against the bathroom door, watching the grooming process with mild amusement. He pointed at an escaped tendril. "You've missed a bit just there."

Sherlock frowned intently at his reflection, combing and patting the renegade into place.

"I take it we're not attending this event for fun," John said, folding his arms, "or are you a fan?"

"Not especially, no," Sherlock smirked. "We still have to prevent Clare Golynski's encounter with Spencer. Or, more accurately, _Lestrade's_ encounter with Spencer. According to the text Ms Golynski sent me last night, they're to meet at this match for the exchange. Lestrade and his team will have her under surveillance."

"Why couldn't you have just told her not to show up?"

"Because Spencer needs to see her there. It's vital he does not doubt her intentions."

"And we still can't have Lestrade pick him up," nodded John. "Because we don't want justice done _quite_ yet, right?"

"Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John," Sherlock said, casting a sideways glance at him.

John chuckled. "Yes, it does. Better than…that new suit." He was making an effort to keep his tone light this morning, but his concerns were still present. He felt on edge, watchful, and he knew Sherlock sensed his continued unease. He had made no advances last night when they returned to the suite after visiting Richard Brook's flat, had retired wordlessly to the sitting room once John had undressed and gone to bed, had let John sleep in undisturbed.

"You understand, though."

"Nope," John shook his head. "Not really. But I _am_ trusting you. For now."

"For now," Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. "Until when?"

"Just…for now," John repeated firmly.

Sherlock turned from the mirror and gave John a searching look. "You could…would you like to _test_ me again?" he invited cautiously. He took a small step toward John. His raised hand hovered hopefully over John's shoulder but did not alight.

It was disconcerting—Sherlock's face in Gabriel March's costume—and strange how they really did look like two different men to John now, subtle as the differences were. He wondered how he hadn't seen the transitions before, because it had not been Gabriel March he kissed that first night. It had not been Gabriel March he slept next to. John uncrossed his arms and opened them in silent invitation.

Sherlock stepped into his embrace with a sigh, sliding the palm of his hand over the soft lamb's wool of John's olive green jumper and down his back. His kiss did in fact taste distinctly of mint, and John explored it with interest, enjoying the contrast of the cool flavour with the slow, warm slide of Sherlock's tongue. It was easy to fall into one of those kisses. So easy. So easy to stop thinking and just feel and fall. But when Sherlock's breath hitched and he started to press his body in closer, more urgently, John pulled away.

Sherlock tilted toward him, looking a little lost. "John?"

"You're very good at that, you know?" John ran his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip.

"Then we should do it again," Sherlock murmured thickly. "And again."

John moved his hand to Sherlock's chest, holding him at bay and lowering his eyes. He raised his other arm and looked at his watch, just to have something to look at besides Sherlock. "What time do we need to leave?"

"John." Sherlock reached out to brush his fingers through John's hair, his voice dropping.

"I heard Mrs Hudson bring in breakfast earlier, didn't I?"

Sherlock let his hand fall by his side. "Yes."

John looked up at Sherlock's face and caught a glimpse of strain, replaced during the blink of John's eyes with a neutral expression. He wasn't sure exactly when he had started thinking of those unusual, angular features as _beautiful_ —perhaps from the first look or perhaps it had taken an hour or two—but he didn't think he could see them any other way now. Even when they took on the cool look of a mask, Gabriel's face hiding the animation and passion John now knew was Sherlock's, the beauty remained.

He had to look away. Just for a moment.

"Are you wearing a tie today?"

A little line of frustration appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows at the mundane question. "Yes. Of course."

With a sigh, John reached out and squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Come on, then…Gabriel. I'll help you put it on."

 

+++

 

"I don't have to know anything about polo, do I?" John muttered to Sherlock as they approached a row of white tables, chairs, and canopy tents. The day was crisp and clear with the sharp smell of the turn of the season. The players were warming their mounts up on the field, which was separated from the spectator area by a white picket fence.

"Most of these people are here to look at one another," Sherlock informed him, "not the match. So, no. You'll fit right in."

John peered into the crowd, noting a lot of cream-coloured trousers, wine glasses, and not a few oversized hats. He glanced down at his clothing. He'd added a light brown herringbone blazer over his green jumper and tan trousers, which had all seemed a bit formal in comparison with his usual attire for a sporting event, but—yes—he _would_ fit in here, at least by appearance. "Do you see anyone yet? What does this Spencer look like?"

"Tall, athletic," he gestured toward his head, "wavy blond hair, gold wire-rimmed glasses."

"Hm, tall, athletic, blond…that actually describes half the men here," John observed, looking around. "I've clearly been pulling from the wrong sort of places."

Sherlock gave him a displeased look.

John grinned up at him, feeling a little lighter in the sunlight and brisk air. "This week, though, it's tall, dark, and deranged for me. Doesn't hurt if he can play a bit of violin."

"Pity, that last," Sherlock said, raising his injured wrist. "I'm not to play for a while. Doctor's orders."

"Who said I was talking about you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "Deranged?"

John nodded. "That was the giveaway, wasn't it?"

"I understand your vocabulary is very limited, John. I believe you meant debonair."

"Demented."

"Dynamic."

"Dreadful."

"Discerning. Distinctive. _Dazzling_."

"Bit of a dick."

Sherlock started to giggle, but his smile slid away abruptly. "I see Clare Golynski."

John followed Sherlock's gaze past a well-attended drinks tent to a table set in the shade of an elm tree. A dark-haired woman in oversized sunglasses sat bundled up in a long, fur-trimmed black coat that had to be too warm for the day. A black satchel rested in the chair next to her.

As they passed through the part of the crowd nearest her, Sherlock offered her a barely perceptible nod. John thought he saw her chin tilt down just a fraction in response. He scanned tables within line-of-sight of Clare Golynski's until he spotted silvery hair. "There's Lestrade," he whispered. "No sign of your Spencer?"

Sherlock did another visual sweep. "Not yet. I'll keep watch for him—you go to Lestrade. If anything goes wrong—"

"I know, keep him distracted," John nodded confirmation of his simplistically straightforward mission.

"Throw him onto the field if you have to," Sherlock instructed, "just don't let him get anywhere near Spencer."

"Yeah, I think I can manage it without having the man trampled to death," said John dryly. "I actually _like_ him. Go on, then. You know where I'll be."

Sherlock moved away into the milling stream of spectators, and John turned and headed for Lestrade's table.

"Detective Inspector. Hello," John greeted Lestrade affably. "May I join you?"

Lestrade glanced up at him and smiled. "John, hello. Yeah, have a seat. We're still waiting, obviously. Sherlock around here somewhere?"

"I'm actually here with Gabriel," John said pointedly. He took a seat next to Lestrade, selecting a chair where he also had a clear view of Clare Golynski's table as well as a good view of the crowd.

"Oh, right," Lestrade winced a little. " _Gabriel_."

John _did_ like DI Lestrade. He liked the way he'd dealt with Sherlock when they'd met at the restaurant, his respectful-but-take-no-shit attitude. He liked that, in spite of being an apparently competent professional, he was willing to humble himself to ask for help when he needed it in order to help someone else in turn. He liked that Lestrade really seemed to _care_ beyond duty about the people whose photographs and statistics were flattened into his case files. And on top of it all, he just seemed a nice bloke, really. _This_ was the sort of person John should fall for—someone open, someone who said what they meant and meant what they said.

Not that he was falling for anyone.

No, he liked Lestrade, but that was all. Apparently he hadn't really been joking when he described his type to Sherlock. At least…not this week. Demented and angular, full of dark corners and trap doors, some sort of mysterious, melodramatic…bastard. _Dangerous_. _Dramatic. Deceitful_.

Yeah, that was his type, all right. Good on him. John sighed.

"Everything…okay?" Lestrade was giving John an odd look.

John blinked. "Yeah, fine. Good. Really good. Sher…Gabriel, yeah, he's here. You know, lurking. He didn't think Ms Golynski should see you with him." He really was starting to lose track of what he was and wasn't supposed to say to whom. Sherlock was probably right—it was best he said as little as possible. "But of course he's ready to move in and, er, assist when the blackmailer shows up. Any…signs so far?"

Lestrade gave a glum shrug. "Nothing yet. If he could sodding well get a move on, I'd really appreciate it, though. I want to get back to this Richard Brook business."

"Yeah." John suddenly wished he had a drink. He glanced wistfully at the drinks tent, but it was still looking overrun. He didn't like withholding information from Lestrade. He was, as far as John could tell, one of the good guys. What were he and Sherlock, then? "Anything else happening there?"

"Nothing. No sign of his whereabouts." Lestrade chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. "I really thought Sherlock would find something at the flat."

Sherlock had said it was _well-staged_ and then offered no further explanation of the comment. "I wish he had," John commiserated.

"Well. If he didn't find anything, there was nothing to find. His brother once said that Sherlock definitely has his own methods, but that he's a brilliant investigator. I'm grateful he's come round to helping out."

John scrubbed at a non-existent spot on the table with his finger. "I think you both want the same things," he finally offered in an attempt to say something truthful.

Lestrade cast him a sidelong glance. "Oh yeah? And what is it Sherlock wants?"

"To...catch the…bad guys, of course."

"That's not what his brother thought."

"No? What did his brother think?"

"That it's all a game to him, a competition. Sherlock versus the Puzzle. Willing to do anything to win, and hell with everything and everyone else. Nothing to do with what's right or wrong."

John frowned. "You told him his brother was proud of him. That…doesn't sound like pride."

Lestrade chuckled quietly. His eyes took on a distant look. "Maybe not at first, but, well, you didn't know Mycroft. He was willing to do anything to win, too. The difference was that to _him_ , there was no _everything and everyone else_. It was all connected, and none of it was a game. I think he was proud of Sherlock because…because..." He trailed off, apparently searching for words for a sentiment never fully expressed. A sentiment that now never would be.

John leaned in, eager for the rest of Lestrade's words when he found them.

The DI shook his head. "Mycroft told me that when they were kids—well, when Sherlock was kid—he taught him to play Go. You know, that strategy game."

John raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Yeah. I've played one or twice. I'm rubbish, though."

"Anyway, Mycroft said the first few times they played, when it went badly for Sherlock he would upset the table, knock the little stones across the room, just throw some sort of fit."

"That sounds like something he might do, yeah."

"And each time, the next day, Mycroft would find the board reset with the pieces all exactly as they last were, and Sherlock waiting to play. That's…that's why he was proud."

"Because he remembered the board? That's quite impressive. Especially for a kid."

"No, Mycroft would have expected that," smirked Lestrade.

"Then because…he wouldn't give up?"

"He wouldn't. He won't. I'm not sure he _can_. At least…according to his brother."

"Well, you did say Mycroft was never wrong."

"Yeah, I never knew him to be…" Lestrade gave John one of his curious looks. "But then he also said Sherlock couldn't have friends."

John blinked and leaned back into his chair, pensive, as the first chukker of the match started.

 

+++

 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock hissed as he grabbed Philip Spencer's arm, pulling him out of the crowd. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?"

To Sherlock's gratification, Spencer looked utterly shocked by Gabriel March's sudden appearance.

"Of course it has. Of course," Sherlock fretted, letting his voice rise into a near-wail. "Why else would you be here?" He gulped, clutching at his hair and tugging. "Oh, God. I'm ruined. I'm absolutely _buggered_ if this deal doesn't go through, Philip. Do you hear me?"

" _Everyone_ can hear you, March." Spencer snapped as he grabbed Sherlock's injured arm, and Sherlock let out a not-entirely-feigned yelp. Spencer frowned, looking down and noting the bandage around Sherlock's wrist. His hand tightened and twisted. "Shut your mouth _now_."

Sherlock found himself being dragged, leaning sideways to alleviate some of the pressure on his wrist, backward into the space between an empty spectator tent and a tree at the fringe of the crowd. "Philip, I'm injured!" he whined.

Spencer pulled him in close enough for Sherlock to smell faint traces of salmon and hollandaise on his breath. "Gabriel, darling," he said in a soft, sing-song voice, "do tell me what you're doing here."

"We're here for the match, of course." Sherlock wrinkled his nose to emphasize the absurdity of the question, then fluttered Gabriel's eyelashes in bafflement. "You mean…you aren't…you're here for the match too?"

The pressure on his wrist eased slightly, but Spencer's clear hazel eyes were still pinned on Sherlock's face. "Well. This is quite the coincidence." His smile glittered.

"Damn it, Philip, you…may I have my hand back?"

Spencer uncurled his fingers reluctantly.

Sherlock rubbed his wrist and settled Gabriel's features into a supercilious frown. "You did rather alarm me," he huffed, and squinted suspiciously at Spencer. "You had no idea I would be here?"

"None whatsoever, I assure you. And—" he held up a hand to forestall any further expressions of angst from Gabriel "—everything is _fine_ , we are on schedule for tomorrow evening."

"Good. Excellent. I’m glad to hear it."

Spencer glanced at his wristwatch—TAG Heuer, Sherlock noted—and the corners of his mouth tightened. "Yes, splendid. Gabriel, I _am_ scheduled to meet another acquaintance, so--"

"A date?" Sherlock interjected Gabriel's attempt, a poor flirtation, at recovering from his gaffe. "Should I be jealous?"

"There's no need," Spencer smirked, eyes crinkling with false humour. "Business. You know how it is." He paused and tilted his head inquisitively. The sun filtering through the trees struck gold highlights on his blond hair. "Who is _we_?"

Sherlock frowned his puzzlement. "Excuse me?"

"You said _we're_ here for the match. Who is _we_?"

"Oh," Sherlock's features cleared in understanding. "My assistant. John." He stepped around the trunk of the tree they were standing by and pointed across the viewing area. "He's just there. The one in that cosy little green jumper."

Spencer's eyes followed Sherlock's gesture and came to rest on John and Lestrade. John's legs were stretched out under the table, his cane leaning against his chair. He and Lestrade were apparently involved in a conversation, their heads tilted toward each other, both with similar expressions of dry amusement. John threw his head back and laughed at some remark of Lestrade's. Spencer's full upper lip curled. "Do you know who that is he's sitting with?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock shrugged indifference. "Some friend. I don't know. He likes to be _social_." He sniffed the last word disdainfully. "Which is really quite _irritating_ when I'm in dire need of another drink. I shall have a word."

Spencer's eyes slid away from John and Lestrade and then for the first time since Sherlock had commandeered him, toward Clare Golynski. His gaze came to rest on Sherlock's face and his smile this time was hungry. "You do that. You have to be firm with some people." His hand shot up and locked around the back of Sherlock's neck. He pushed forward and his mouth was on Sherlock's, velvety lips and sharp teeth and a swipe of wet tongue and then he bit— _bit_ Sherlock's lip.

Sherlock's head jerked back and his hands scrabbled against the bark of the tree behind him. Sherlock Holmes would not stand for this, but Gabriel… Gabriel March would not know how to react. _Gabriel_ was caught off guard, not him.

"Otherwise, they think they can get away with absolute _murder_ ," Spencer whispered against Sherlock's cheek. He stepped away as abruptly as he had lunged forward. His eyes were dancing with glee and he licked a tiny smear of blood into his mouth. "And now I really must run. Until tomorrow, Gabriel. My _delicious_ angel."

Sherlock leant back against the tree and touched his bleeding lip gingerly, fighting down a surge of revulsion. Gabriel's hands were shaking, and he took deep breaths until they calmed. He did not look toward John again when he stepped away from the cover of the tent and blended into the crowd.

 

+++

 

"—and then he took the torch out of his pants," Lestrade snickered.

John laughed. "He didn't!"

"Well, good thing for us he'd forgotten to switch it off, or—she's leaving!" Lestrade bolted upright onto the edge of his chair.

"What?" John's head swivelled back to Clare Golynski, who was standing and hastily gathering her things. She'd spoken to no one. No one had come near her. Perhaps Sherlock had signalled her somehow? "Why would she be leaving? She hasn't made the exchange—we'd have seen."

"I don't know," Lestrade said, flustered, patting at his coat. He nodded sharply to another man—another officer, apparently—so inconspicuously dressed and positioned than John hadn't noticed him. "Maybe they changed the location? I don't know. Shit, we've got to go after her. Just in case."

John grabbed his cane and pushed his chair back, standing along with Lestrade. "Yeah, of course. I'll tell Sherlock. When I find him." He scanned the crowd for Sherlock's grey suit, lush dark hair, but saw only strangers. "If I find him," he said wryly. He had his phone, of course, but he wouldn't want to interrupt Sherlock if he was busy with…whatever he was doing.

As Lestrade and his man moved away to shadow Clare Golynski, John made his way through the groups of gaily chatting spectators, trying not to knock into anyone. As Sherlock had observed, hardly anyone was watching the match. The announcer was interspersing his commentary on the match with appeals for generous donations for the cause. Conversation groups banded and disbanded constantly amongst the crowd. There was a great deal of cheek-kissing, gales of laughter, clinking of champagne glasses. John tried to peer over the heads of taller men and posh, floppy hats of the women to no avail.

Having made his way across the viewing area with no sign of Sherlock, he pulled his mobile from his pocket to send a text.

A hand rested on his sleeve, and he looked up at a tall, fit, golden-haired man and blinked.

"John, isn't it?" the man smiled, bright hazel eyes crinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.

_Spencer_. "Yes. Hello. I don't believe we've met," John said as casually as he could manage.

"Enjoying the match?"

"Yes, um, the…horses are beautiful. Very…athletic."

"They're called _ponies_ , love." Philip Spencer's eyes roamed up and down John's body, a lazy, personal inspection. A smile played around his lips as he met John's eyes again. "So you're the flavour of the month."

"I…excuse me?" John pulled away from the man's touch on his arm.

"You're quite plain, aren't you?" Spencer's eyes drifted to his cane. "And a bit defective, I see, but there must be _some_ fun to be had off you. You've been keeping our Gabriel _entertained_ recently, have you not?"

John's back teeth clicked together as he clamped his jaw, but he pressed out a sardonic smile. "I'm Mr March's associate, if that's what you're asking."

Spencer's eyes sparkled. "His right hand man?"

John lifted his chin. Spencer knew him as Gabriel's assistant. He couldn't actually know about John's other arrangement with Gabriel…Sherlock…could he? John ignored the innuendo, answering blandly, "Until his injury is healed, yes, I suppose so."

"Then you'll be available again soon. Good. Perhaps I could engage that hand when Gabriel is finished with it."

"What do you want?" John clipped out, turning to face Spencer directly.

"No more flirting? Oh, dear, have I upset you? So easily? You won't last long with my Gabriel, I fear. But then I suppose you knew that."

_He's trying to rattle you. Don't let him._ "What do you want?" John repeated. "Last chance."

"I just wanted to meet you," Spencer pouted. "We have so much in common."

"I doubt that."

"Really?" Spencer laughed. "We both have _business_ relationships with Gabriel, do we not?"

John kept up his stony stare, but Spencer's unctuous, suggestive tone was starting to turn his stomach.

Spencer's smile broadened. "And if we indulge in a little suck or fuck now and then, that needn't get in the way of the business. Just greasing the wheels, yes? He's good at that, our Gabriel, isn't he? _Greasing_."

_He's lying._ John's face drew tighter. He felt himself flush, and then flush more deeply as he grew angry with himself for reacting. _He's lying._

"And his mouth is a _miracle_ , isn't it? But…oh, dear. Oh, dear, you didn't think you were the only one, did you?" Spencer laughed softly, tilting his head with a pitying look. "Did he make you feel…special? He's good at that, too."

_He did. God, he did._

John leaned forward into Spencer's space, to show he was not intimidated by a few empty words about a man whose real name Spencer didn't even _know_.

A man who called Spencer _Philip_. _Mixing business with pleasure? Anything to win. All a game._

"What are you playing at, Spencer?"

"Oh, you _do_ know me!" he exclaimed with delight. "I think I see a little spark in you, after all, now that I look closely. Gabriel probably thinks you're easily managed."

_So do you, you prick._ John widened his stance. He smiled his growing rage into Spencer's smug face. "Whatever game it is, I'm not playing. And neither is Gabriel."

Spencer laughed. "Do you know him at all?"

"I know this deal is important to him," John said steadily. "That's all I care about. That's my job—to see that he's successful. What you…get up to outside that is no concern of mine."

Spencer's eyes narrowed, raking John from head to toe once again. "Good," he praised, silken-voiced. "Good boy. Well done. I almost believe you."  Spencer lifted a hand to brush his fingers through the hair over John's ear. The touch was so reminiscent of Sherlock's that John shuddered involuntarily. "You might want to let go of that phone before you crush it. Keeping you waiting, is he? Maybe you can run back to your _other_ friend."

"Believe what you like. Just make your deal and I'll be on my way." John took another step toward Spencer and widened his smile. "And if you ever touch me again, Spencer, I _will_ break your hand. That's a promise."

"Ah, you like it rough, too. Maybe you two are a better match than I thought." Spencer caught his lower lip between his teeth and winked at John, but his eyes were hard. "One more thing, before I go. Give him a message, would you? Tell him I don't _believe_ in _coincidences_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just tell him," Spencer barked, his leer transforming abruptly into a snarl. He turned and strode away.

John sagged into his cane, finally letting his breath out. He looked down at his hands. His fingers were white around both the cane's handle and around his mobile, just as Spencer had noted. The mobile. His line to Sherlock. _Do you know him at all?_ He stared at the mobile for a long time before shoving it back into his pocket. He wheeled and headed toward the exit gate as fast as he could walk.

_Sod this_.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

John leaned over the terrace railing and stared moodily at the city lights below, watching them flicker across the rippled surface of the Thames. A boat slowly made its way northwest against the river's flow. Its lights winked out as it passed under Waterloo Bridge and then winked back into life on the other side. _Sunset sightseeing cruise coming back_ , John thought idly. _Probably some lovely views._

He heard the muffled sound of the suite's entry door opening and closing. He raised the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand and took a deep swallow. It was several more minutes before the terrace door behind him slid open. The skin on the back of his neck prickled at the sensation of Sherlock's proximity, but he didn't turn around.

"Your bags are packed," Sherlock said flatly.

John set his drink down on the railing. Picked it up again. Tipped it back and swallowed the rest of his whisky. Even though this was probably a very good whisky, he didn't care so much for the taste as he liked the burn. "Yes," he nodded. "That's a good observation."

"Why?" The word was tight and tinged with hurt, with just the sort of inflection that made John want to turn and offer his touch in comfort. He actually felt it in his fingers, like they needed to stretch. He curled them into his palms instead. "Your sister?" Sherlock hazarded. "Did something happen?"

"My sister is fine." A light but penetratingly cool wind stirred his hair. He'd been getting progressively colder since he came outside without his jacket. Just as with the whisky, he was enjoying the burn that kept him on edge—sharp and still—while he waited for Sherlock.

"I'm waiting for an explanation," Sherlock demanded. Impatient. Apprehensive.

John laughed humourlessly at the reversal. "Frustrating, isn't it?" Bracing himself for whatever expression Sherlock might have in place, John swung around to look at him.

Sherlock's appearance was strikingly reminiscent of the night John had first seen him. His hair was dishevelled, looking like fingers had raked through it repeatedly. _Whose fingers_? His face was both tired and wired, its sharp, exotic angles emphasized in the amber glow of the terrace light. His shirt collar was open, his tie still draped over his shoulders--probably yanked loose as soon as he entered the suite. _Or earlier_? The most significant alteration in his appearance was the addition of an angry red mark on his lower lip.

John kept his eyes on that mark while he spoke. "When I started packing, I was wishing I'd never met you. Never got into your stupid car." He worked to keep his voice low and steady.

Sherlock's face darkened, as though he were drawing shadows to it. "John, what _happened_?"

"He gave me a message for you," John said mildly.

"He?" Sherlock frowned and shook his head in confusion. "Lestrade? What did he—"

"Not _Lestrade_ ," John's anger flared, and he swallowed it down. "Spencer," he bit out.

Sherlock jolted forward a half step, raking John up and down with anxious eyes. "He spoke to you? Is that…all he did?"

"It was enough. 'I don't believe in coincidences.' That was the message. Mean anything to you?"

Sherlock grimaced, eyelids drifting closed. "Stupid. _Stupid_." He turned, paced half the length of the terrace away from John, turned and paced back. "John, listen, I'm sorry he did that. I admit, I didn't anticipate that…response, but you weren't in any danger. Not there."

"No danger?" John smirked. "No danger from the man who walked directly over to me to rub it in my face that…" He stopped, swallowed. "Or is this no danger like the _no danger_ Richard Brook is in, after you said he wasn't. In fact, I remember the word _promise_."

"Oh, _this_ again." Sherlock pressed his lips together, breathed an exasperated sigh through his nose. He waved a hand at John. "This is _precisely_ why I work alone."

John stared at him, licked his lips, nodded sharply. "Yeah, well…good luck with that." He pushed past Sherlock to open the door to the suite. His cane was leaning against the wall just inside the door, and he snatched it up and headed for the bedroom where he'd left his bags.

"So you're leaving? John!" Sherlock followed close on his heels. "Need I remind you, John, we had an _agreement_? You are, in fact, my _employee_."

John's laptop bag and the travel bag he'd hastily packed upon his return to the hotel were resting in the centre of the bed. John snapped open the travel bag, grabbed a handful of clothing—rumpled pyjama bottoms, a vest, and one sock—and threw them down on the bed. "Not anymore."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, and then his expression turned cold. "So much for honouring our agreement, then, hm?" He raised his chin disdainfully.

"When was I doing anything honourable here?" John asked, pulling a pair of jeans and another sock from his bag. "Sherlock, tell me, really. Because I'm not sure anyone's ever made me feel less _honourable_."

"Oh, I find that hard to believe," snapped Sherlock.

John stilled and met Sherlock's glare with a grim, disappointed look.

Sherlock's eyes fell.

"You were the one who changed the terms," John pointed out. "And you're evidently not keen on full disclosure."

Sherlock made a strange sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a word John couldn't interpret. He strode to the far side of the bed and flung open a bureau drawer.

"So you have an out. And of course…of _course_ …it was for the money from the beginning. I had no illusions on that count. What other reason—" He spun around to face John again and the anger in his eyes suddenly died. He dropped an envelope the bed. "—could you have? I thought you might find cash more convenient. Take it," he said tonelessly. "You may as well."

"Terrific. Ta," John offered through clenched teeth. He pulled out his toiletries case and the jumper he'd worn shopping and threw them on the bed on top of the envelope. The toiletries case made a clattering sound as the assorted items inside jostled against each other.

Sherlock frowned at the noise, then frowned at the pile of clothing, really noticing it for the first time. He pointed at it, almost accusingly. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"You're _un_ packing."

"Another good observation. I see why your skills as a detective are in demand."

Sherlock ignored the mockery and continued to stare at John's clothes as though he had missed some vital clue hidden there.

"Because we had an agreement," he answered the unasked question. "And because it's about more than that now. At least…it is for me." He said the words with some resentment because, even as he spoke, he wasn't sure he could define what _more_ was, if pressed. It was about Harry, yes. It was about Lestrade and Richard Brook and Molly Hooper. And it was about himself. About something he had to see through. He shook the rest of his things out of his bag and dropped it on the floor along with his laptop case, settled into a balanced, ready stance, and looked defiantly at Sherlock. Whom he was going to help. Whether he sodding wanted it or not.

More emotions crossed Sherlock's face in the next few moments than John thought he had seen there since they had met. Surprise, disbelief, happiness, anger, vulnerability. John had no idea whether Sherlock was experiencing them or just trying them on for the right fit, but he finally settled on what looked like a sort of cautious hope.

"You're staying?" Sherlock reached down and touched one of John's socks. It had a hole starting in the toe. He'd been wearing it when they met.

It was a strangely tender gesture, and it broke John's control. "You should have told me," he ground out. _Damn it_ , he hadn't meant to talk about Spencer, at least not like _this_ , but here it came. "I wish you'd just told me. It's none of my business—I _do_ know that. I _do_ realize I'm only a…temporary convenience. But if you'd _told_ me, I would have been _prepared_ when he started in. I would have known how to handle it."

"John…I don't understand."

Sherlock did indeed look truly bewildered, which made John even more confused in turn.

"Neither do I," he snorted. "You said he was a sociopath. Maybe you get off on that. You were awfully worked up after he called yesterday, yeah? Or maybe you were just doing what you thought you had to. Or…are doing. Fuck. I don't know." John scowled down at his hand, which had curled into a fist again as he spoke. He was going to have permanent nail prints in his palm from this day. He squeezed until he thought he had control of his voice again, which had devolved into a humiliating sort of squeaking whisper on a couple of those last syllables. "I just wish you'd…told me."

Sherlock was around the bed before John could look up again, grasping him by the left shoulder. He ducked down to stare John in the eyes as understanding dawned in his own. "Lovers. He…told you we were _lovers_." He straightened, glowering down his nose. His upper lip started to curl, baring his teeth.

Although it was far too late, John tried to shrug it away. It wasn't important. It wasn't his business. It had nothing to do with why he'd almost left. Nothing to do with why he'd decided to stay. He and Sherlock may have been _compatible_ in bed—or against the wall, or on the floor—yes, that was true, but he had no claim on Sherlock. None whatsoever. No reason to feel like he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"He said you liked it rough." John raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Is that what happened to your lip?"

Sherlock's hand drifted from John's shoulder to his own lip as though he'd forgotten it was marred. Flushing, he looked away from John. "Philip Spencer and I are not lovers. We have never _been_ lovers. I haven't…taken a lover since…for a long time," he said uncomfortably. "Until you."

John's throat tightened. He had no reason to believe Sherlock beyond his word, but once again John's instincts were urging him to trust this elusive, contradictory creature. Not the surface of him, not the beautiful shifting sunlight on the water, but the depths beneath, murky though they may be. Was there solid footing there, at the bottom of it all? Sherlock had said exactly what wanted to hear, but that didn't mean it wasn't the truth.

"I'm staying," John confirmed. "But not as your employee."

Sherlock blinked several times rapidly, frowning in confusion. "Then as…what?" His hand had found its way back to John's shoulder, gripping a handful of his jumper as though John might try to escape.

John reached down and picked up Sherlock's arm, turning his injured wrist gently and inspecting the smooth wrapping the bandage. "What are you really playing at with him, then, Sherlock? With Spencer," he asked worriedly, touching the pad of his thumb to one of the buttons on Sherlock's jacket sleeve. "He's…not a nice man."

"Oh!" Sherlock jerked into motion again, taking his hands away and patting at himself until he located his mobile in his left trouser pocket. He pressed several keys and then thrust the phone at John. "Look at this."

John took it, glanced at the gruesome photo of Richard Brook that Sherlock had called up on the display. He grimaced. "Yes, I've seen it, what--?"

Sherlock shifted impatiently on his feet. "No, John, really _look_."

"I _am_ looking, I see it, he's bleeding…" John's words slowed as he squinted at the picture. He had never _really_ looked, had he? "Wait a minute. He's bleeding… _wrong_." He looked up at Sherlock, confused.

A grin spread across Sherlock's face. "Go on," he encouraged, looking excited.

John bent his head to the mobile again. "Well, it's hard to see clearly, but…" He pointed. "The bleeding here is too light for that laceration, but the bleeding _here_ is too heavy. And that bruise…that wouldn't have had time to form, not with that colouration." His eyes rose to Sherlock's again, seeking an explanation.

"And why are we meeting Spencer at the opera house?"

John shook his head. "I don't…I don’t know."

"At the _theatre_ , John."

"This is…well-staged, you said _well-staged_. This is make-up? Stage make-up?"

Sherlock beamed at him.  "Richard Brook is an actor. This abduction is nothing but a stunt for Spencer to pressure Miss Hooper into providing the new fibre sample. Apparently they thought this--appealing to her _romantic_ nature--a better tactic than appealing to her mercenary nature."

"And you're going to use her as bait," John interjected with a worried frown.

Sherlock's face fell. "The _point_ is Richard Brook was never _in_ danger." He jabbed a long finger at the phone. "Just as I _said_. Do you see?"

John stared at him. The earnest, searching look was back. John _saw_ , yes. He saw the simple need for approval, unacknowledged but still craved. He also saw the isolation behind it, and in this they were the same. Where John receded into the background, Sherlock flared and flashed and distracted, but the end result was the same. _Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain._ "I've been asking the wrong question," he murmured to himself with a little huff of surprise. It had never been about trust.

"What?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled.

John looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment before he came to a decision. "I want to take you bed."

Sherlock blinked, looking both startled and pleased by the declaration, then looked at the mobile again in confusion, as if the explanation for John's sudden change of tack might be hidden in Richard Brook's photo. "John, I…that's good…but…"

"I mean now. I want to take you to bed right now. Put that away."

Sherlock returned the phone to his pocket. "I take it the row is over," he said slowly.

"Just come to bed." John leaned over and swept the jumble of clothing from the bed onto the floor. When Sherlock didn't move, John grabbed him by his shirt front and pulled him down for a kiss.

Sherlock ducked his head to the side at the last moment, touching his tongue to the raw spot on his lip. "No," he said stiffly, "it hasn't…been cleaned."

"It's all right. It'll be fine." John pulled him back into an embrace, moving one hand to stroke Sherlock's hair, soothing and subtly pulling out subdued curls. _Spencer has no idea what you like._ "It's good that you have a doctor at your beck and call, yeah? Now shut up. This is an established medical technique." He pushed up onto his toes and kissed Sherlock's upper lip, a light, unchallenging press of warmth. _But I do._ He felt a swell of confidence in the realization.He moved on to kiss Sherlock's lower lip, in the middle, neither focussed on nor shy of the bite mark—and it _was_ a bite mark—on the left side. He kissed again, and again, before tilting his head to press his mouth fully against Sherlock's, teasing it open with his tongue.

It did not take much convincing. Sherlock's arms closed around him and tightened, and then tightened some more. John broke into a low, satisfied laugh against his mouth as Sherlock's kisses grew hungrier. For several long, luscious moments, he stopped thinking altogether, letting Sherlock's heat warm his mouth, his chest, his groin, his toes. Sherlock's right wrist was pressed to the back of his neck and his left hand was kneading John's lower back like a cat's paw, urging him closer and closer with clutching, possessive motions.

John pulled back with a gasp, pushing Sherlock to arm's length, reigning in his body's desire to mould itself to Sherlock's until one was buried inside the other _._ Sherlock was leaning toward him dark-eyed and flushed. His lips were reddened from kissing now, making Spencer's mark much less prominent. It was a start.

"Sherlock." He made sure Sherlock's eyes met his. "Get your kit off. Get on the bed," John instructed. He waited until Sherlock registered his tone of voice, recognized it wasn't a request. Not this time. "And do as I say. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he breathed. With his eyes glittering, Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket, toeing off his shoes at the same time. "I understand."

John licked his lips and nodded approval. "All of it. Hurry up. I want to see you." He stepped back to watch.

Sherlock's hand flicked open the buttons on his shirt rapidly. He pulled his tie free, but left the shirt on, hanging open, as he bent down to pull off trousers, pants, and socks in a graceful, economical motion. He glanced up at John, almost shyly.

"Show me," John encouraged.

He saw the _showmanship_ click on. When Sherlock straightened and cast off the shirt, the effect was of a dramatic unveiling. The long lines of Sherlock's lean, pale torso drew his eyes down to the dark patch between his legs where his cock was flushed and thickened. Sherlock moved his hands to his hipbones and ran them lightly down, over the tops of his well-muscled thighs, another showcasing move. John smiled and leered openly. When John finally managed to look at his face again, Sherlock bore a wickedly knowing half-grin.

 _Cocky bastard._ John smirked and lifted his chin. _So to speak_. "I said _get on the bed_ ," he directed softly.

Even in turning to comply, Sherlock moved slowly and deliberately so that the back side of his physique was presented as attractively as the front side had been. He peeked over his shoulder to ascertain John's continued appreciation. "Yes, it's true," John smiled at the tease. "I _do_ love looking at you. No, stop. I don't want you to lie down. Kneel. Facing me."

He didn't miss Sherlock's indrawn breath, and smiled satisfaction again as Sherlock settled himself into a kneeling position, his back to the head of the bed.

"Legs apart," he instructed as he moved to the bedside table, opened the drawer, and reached inside. He climbed onto the bed. Sherlock's hips were making subtle little rocking motions that John thought he might not even be aware of. It didn't matter if he was or not, really. John leaned over and kissed his cock.

Sherlock made a primitive sound of pleasure and reached to put his hands into John's hair.

"No." John pulled his hands away and sat up, smiling at Sherlock's beseeching look. "Do you want me to suck you?"

"I do _now_ ," Sherlock growled.

"Good." John tossed the bottle of lubricant next to him on the bed. "Use that. Get yourself hard. All the way." He heard the click of the cap as he swung his legs off the bed again and turned away from Sherlock. He pulled the padded armchair from the corner of the room to the foot of the bed. When he looked back, Sherlock was pulling at his erection, mouth open, eyes locked on John. "Very good," John murmured encouragingly. He picked up the bottle of lube again and sat himself in the armchair, watching Sherlock's hand move. "Faster."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered as he complied, stroking himself faster, rapid outward flicks of his big hand followed by slower drags back down the shaft, pushing the head of his cock out between his thumb and forefinger and pulling at his foreskin.

"Sometime soon, I'd like you to fuck me," John said conversationally, "just like that." He was gratified by Sherlock's strangled grunt. He reached between his legs and gave his own erection a squeeze through his trousers. "Eyes forward, Sherlock," he insisted kindly. "I don't usually like it as much that way. On the bottom. But with you…I'd want you behind me, I think. I like your arms around me from behind. Show me how you'd fuck me."

"John," Sherlock groaned.

"So, you like that idea… _show_ me. Fuck your hand the way you'd fuck me."

"Like this," Sherlock gasped, keeping up the rhythm John had set for him. "You said you want this."

"Now I want more. Sherlock. _Harder_." John squeezed himself again, rubbed his palm over the warm length of his own cock under his trousers. "Make me feel it."

Sherlock's hand stilled and his hips started to move. He pushed up onto his knees, thrusting into his fist fast and hard. His eyes squeezed shut and cords of tension stood out on his long neck.

"Stop," John said. "Open your eyes." It was growing more and more difficult not to just crawl on top of him. John took several breaths, moistened his own lips. "How do you feel?"

"I want you," Sherlock ground out.

"Good. I want you, too. I do love watching you, though," he said with complete sincerity. "Now start again. Slowly."

With a long exhale and a dark look of frustration, Sherlock settled back and squeezed his leaking cock, then starting sliding his hand slowly up and down the shaft. His eyelids fluttered as his pleasure began to build again, but he dutifully kept his eyes open and on John.

John unfastened his trousers, pushing them and his pants down just enough so that he could free his own erection. He uncapped the lube and squeezed a generous drop into his palm. "Then again," he slid his hand around his cock, slicking himself up with a sigh of anticipation, "fucking _you_ would be…amazing. Sit up a bit. Reach behind you. That's right. Just touch. Just rub. Don't put your finger inside. Oh, I wish your wrist was healed."

Sherlock looked at his right hand. "I can…I could—"

"No. Hand on your cock again, that gorgeous cock. Left hand, like I would use. I'd fuck you face to face, Sherlock, so I could watch your eyes roll back. And I'd make sure they did. Move your hand, please. " John's hand started to move in a quick, light rhythm to match Sherlock's. God, he didn't need much. "And I would never let you touch your own dick." John's voice was rapidly growing dark and thick with lust. "That hand around you now would be mine. Faster. In you, around you. I'd have you completely. I said _faster_."

Sherlock's hand was a blur of wet sound. "John," he panted, "I can't…I can't…I'm going to—"

"Stop," John ordered, sucking in short breaths. He did not still his own hand, sliding up and down and making its own sloppy sounds, squeezing at the tip of his cock on each stroke.

"John," Sherlock whimpered. "I can't. John." He looked hot and tormented. A thin sheen of sweat had formed over the pinked skin at the base of his neck and across his collarbones. His chest rose and fell and his big hand hovered, curved around his cock but not touching.

"God, Sherlock," John breathed. " _Come here_."

Sherlock launched himself across the bed.

John's chair was nearly knocked over, and when it rocked forward again Sherlock hauled him onto the bed on his back. "Off!" he shouted at John's trousers, pulling them down by the pockets.

"Leave them," John said once they reached his lower thighs. His shoes were still on, anyway. "Come here."

There was a flash of dark hair and wild, pale eyes in front of his face, and then he was covered in slick, rutting detective.

"Oh, _God_ ," Sherlock moaned when their cocks rubbed together. He wrapped his arms around John's neck and shoulders and kissed him frantically.

The scenarios he'd just described to Sherlock were still fresh in John's imagination. "Do you want—"

"No." Sherlock ground himself into John, sliding against John's abdomen, his hip, back against his cock, against anything that was there to provide the elusive, essential friction. "Just want—"

"—get off," John agreed breathlessly, grinding back. His feet were bound by his trousers and he was grunting, swearing, trying to get _closer_.

"Yes." Sherlock leaned on his elbow, hitched one hip, and squeezed his left hand in between their bodies and around their cocks, holding them together.

"Yes," groaned John, finding a rhythm in his thrusts into Sherlock's hand. He kissed any part of Sherlock he could get to—throat, chin, chest, his lips raking across skin and stubble and hair with equal appreciation—as the driving demand for release tightened his pelvis deliciously. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

"Say it?" Sherlock pleaded urgently.

Ridiculous man. He pulled Sherlock's hair, bringing his ear down to John's mouth. "Sherlock." John's giggle tore into a moan as he came, clutching at Sherlock's hair and back, pulsing wet warmth between their bellies. "Sherlock!"

Two more thrusts and Sherlock bellowed out his own cry into John's neck, then collapsed on top of him, panting and twitching through several aftershocks.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock as they started to move together once again, a slow writhing motion, smearing stickiness into each other.

"John," Sherlock breathed at last after a long kiss, "that was—"

"Better than wanking?" John kissed his temple, lips lingering to steal a taste of salt from his skin.

Sherlock pulled away a little, looking down between their bodies. "Messier," he observed wryly.

"Do _not_ wipe that hand on my jumper," John warned, squirming. "It's brand new!"

"John, your jumper is already well-soiled," Sherlock lifted up to point at the bottom of John's shirt and jumper with no small amount of satisfaction.

John peered down between their bodies. "Ugh. Well…yeah, it _can_ be messy. But still better…than on your own." He kissed Sherlock, frowning just a little. "Do you see?"

Sherlock frowned back, then huffed a small laugh. "You cheated," he said appreciatively. "Again."

"No," John said quietly, reaching up to push a hand into Sherlock's now wildly tangled hair, trying to gently pull out the snags, "I stopped playing."

"You're not a subtle man, are you?"

John smiled, very enigmatically, he thought.

Sherlock touched a fingertip to the rim of John's ear as he inspected his face closely. "If not my employee then what?"

"I don't know." John shook his head. The question was apparently important enough to Sherlock to repeat, but he didn't have the answer. "But I do know...Sherlock, you can't use that woman like that, Molly Hooper. It isn't fair. It isn't right. There's a murderer in the mix here. There must be another way."

"John, you're so prosaic," Sherlock said, not unkindly. He tempered the words further with a kiss to John's brow. "Fair, unfair. Police good. Criminals bad."

"Well…yes. That's how it generally works."

"I told you, John…this is important. I'll do what has to be done."

"Yeah, your brother. Is this what he would have wanted?"

Sherlock sighed and pressed his face into John's shoulder. "He would have wanted me to _win_." His voice was sounding less certain, though. "I wouldn't let harm come to her, John."

They lay together in silence for a long time, John stroking down the ridges of Sherlock's spine, until he started to get cold and a little frustrated that he couldn't move his feet. He squirmed until he was able to toe off a shoe. "We're going to stick together," he pointed out.

"Mm," Sherlock repositioned himself with a sleepy sound of approval.

John chuckled, pressed one foot into the bed, and rolled over, tipping Sherlock's grumbling weight off his body. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up." He touched his thumb to Sherlock's lower lip. It had started to bleed again.


	11. Chapter 11

John woke up alone. Again. He sighed sleepily and ran his hand over the empty space on the bed beside him, listening for any sounds of activity from the rest of the suite. Did Sherlock ever sleep through the night? Or…at all? For all John knew, he slipped away as soon as John was asleep to type or pace or stare at the ceiling or whatever it was he did.

He rolled out of bed and plucked his wash bag from the jumble of his clothing still on the floor. After he went to the toilet and cleaned his teeth, he wandered into the sitting room still in his—quite flattering, he thought—black boxer shorts. "Sherlock?"

The room was empty.

"Sherlock?" He opened the terrace door to peer outside, then shut it again hastily when a gust of chill wind hit his exposed skin, raising the small hairs on the back of his neck and gooseflesh over his arms and thighs. No part of that shiver, he assured himself, was of uneasiness at finding Sherlock gone. He would likely return at any moment, since they still had so much to discuss before the meeting with Spencer—John's jaw tightened involuntarily at the thought of the man—tonight.

Perhaps Sherlock was still formulating the plan that would allow him to get the jump on Spencer. Something intricate and crafty, no doubt. Stealthy and surprising. But safer for Miss Hooper, and safer for Sherlock himself. Not that he didn't think Sherlock could handle a little danger, but Spencer seemed like the kind of man who fired from the shadows. A sniper. John's mouth pressed into a grim line and he gave his left shoulder a quick shrug to flick away the memory of pain.

He limped a little more heavily as he returned to the bedroom and pulled his laptop case from where it had landed, sticking half out from beneath the bed, during last night's tumult. Taking a seat in the armchair from which he had watched Sherlock's glorious performance last night, he retrieved his SIG from the case and quickly but carefully checked the slide, magazine, and trigger mechanism as well as his ammunition supply. Satisfied the pistol was in working order, John returned it to its hiding place in the laptop bag. He stared for a moment at the empty bed, evoking the picture of Sherlock kneeling there, flushed and trembling, so proud and so vulnerable that even the memory made John's chest tighten.

John _had_ gotten through to him. Hadn't he?

_You don't have to do this alone. In fact, I won't let you, even if you want to._

Apprehension curled around John's stomach. Sometimes old habits died hard, and Sherlock seemed to be _very_ comfortable with secrecy and misdirection.

He stood and retrieved his mobile from the top of the bureau.
    
    
      Where are you? –J

There. John left the phone on the empty bed and headed for the bathroom. He would have a response that put his concerns to rest by the time he had showered and dressed.

He didn't.

He had no appetite whatsoever, but he ordered a late breakfast as an excuse to summon Mrs Hudson. Tea would be good. And she might know, as she had the night of Sherlock's impromptu violin performance, where Sherlock had slipped away.

She didn't.

"Sir, are you…is everything all right?" she asked kindly with a worried look at the lines of tension creasing John's forehead.

"Mrs Hudson…" There was nothing he could tell her about what was _not_ all right, but suddenly the thought of sitting alone with his tea in the big, empty suite was almost unbearable. He put on a hopeful smile. "Join me for a cuppa?"

He saw the glimmer of pleasure in her eyes at the invitation, but she immediately shook her head _no_. "That's very kind of you, sir, but—"

"Please," he interjected in his most persuasive voice. "I insist. You'd be doing me a favour. I'm all alone this morning, after all."

She hesitated, then relented, smoothing her skirt, "Well, sir, if you _insist_. I suppose I might consider it part of the service." She sat herself with resigned dignity in one of the dining chairs.

John grinned and poured them both a cup of the citrus-sweet-smelling Earl Grey.

"You know I can't tell you anything more about Mr March than I already have, sir," she said with a penetrating look at John.

He shook his head gently. "I wasn't going to ask."

Mrs Hudson ducked her head for a sip of tea, peering at John over the rim of her cup.

The corner of his mouth quirked up at her intent, earnest expression. "You want to, though, don't you?"

"It's not my place," Mrs Hudson said firmly. "It would be unprofessional."

John curled his hands around the warmth of the small cup and pursed his lips. "Mrs Hudson," he lifted his eyebrows at her, "I have already developed a strong faith in your ability to reconcile the most complex and conflicting of situations."

"Cheeky," Mrs Hudson scowled at him, but with eyes twinkling. Her gaze drifted thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "What I _can_ tell you, Dr Watson, is that I see a great many things and a great many sorts of people in my line of work."

John made an encouraging _go on_ noise as he took a sip of his tea.

"Some of those people are men who might not be _easy_ to…care for."

_But he is_ , part of John asserted defensively, and then was shot down by a cold glare from the part of him left uninformed and alone in a hotel room. _And, no, he really isn't_.

She returned her cup to its saucer with careful delicacy, but her eyes stayed sharp. "And those men often don't find it easy _to_ care. But easy or not—" She took a breath. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Dear, that boy is quite smitten with you."

John's face warred briefly between a grin at hearing Sherlock described as _that boy_ and disbelief at Mrs Hudson's apparent assurance of his feelings toward John. He shook his head in negation of all of it and struggled through another swallow of tea. "That's very sweet of you to say, Mrs Hudson," he finally managed.

"I've no doubt he's as baffled by it as you seem to be, but it's quite clear to _me_. I've seen the way he looks at you. I've also seen enough young people colliding head-first with one another and then stumbling around in a stupor, wondering why they're dizzy, to know what love looks like when I see it."

"Oh. No. Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry, but you _do_ have it _wrong_. I—" John felt himself flush. Mrs Hudson was a sweet lady, and clearly a romantic, but for God's sake he'd been _hired_ for _sex_. Hardly the stuff of love stories. "I barely know him. We're not in _love_. We're just…I'm just…"

"Feeling a bit dizzy?" Mrs Hudson directed a tart look into her tea cup, muttering under her breath. " _Clots_. I'm sorry, dear. You _did_ ask."

"No," John's face scrunched, "I didn't, actually."

"Just remember…he's probably feeling a bit dizzy, too, your young man."

"Dizziness I can treat. I _am_ a doctor." He gave her a sad little smirk. "I…wish it were that simple, Mrs Hudson. I really do."

She sighed and gave him a sympathetic look. "These little domestics _can_ seem overwhelming, can't they, dear? Do you have an idea of when you expect to see Mr March again?"

"Tonight, if he doesn't return sooner. We're meant to go to the opera."

"Well, that sounds _very_ romantic. I’m sure you'll sort it all out then."

John snorted. "I suppose it does sound romantic. Oh…I should get my suit cleaned. Um—"

"I've already taken care of it. Shame on you, sir, stuffing that lovely thing in the back of your wardrobe like that." Mrs Hudson gave him a woefully disappointed look. "Mr March will certainly have one of his nice suits on as well. We can't have you looking less than, now can we?"

The corner of John's mouth curled into a wry half-smile. _But I am less than_. _Less than I was. Less than I need to be._ Maybe it was so, but whatever his feelings for Sherlock, whatever Sherlock's feelings for him, there was something he may have to do, whether he was adequate to the task or not.

"There was a card, Mrs Hudson, in one of the suit pockets. I wanted to…hang onto it."

"Yes, sir. Left centre drawer of the bureau," Mrs Hudson inclined her head toward the bedroom. "I tucked it under your dark green socks."

"Good." John chewed on his lip. "Excellent."

"And, sir?"

"Hm?"

She gave him an assuring nod. "You also strike me as a person with the ability to resolve complex and conflicting situations."

John laughed roughly and rubbed his hand over his eyes, smearing at the uncertainty behind them. When he smiled at her, he let his gratitude at her words of encouragement show. "Mrs Hudson, have I told you—"

"Yes, dear," she smiled back warmly. "You have."

After she left, John stared at his watch for a short while longer before sending Sherlock another text.
    
    
      Let's try this again. WHERE ARE YOU? –J

A little over twenty minutes later, he received a terse response.
    
    
      Busy.
      GM

John frowned at the initials until he remembered he was texting on the designated Gabriel March phone. Not that he had an alternative. He'd seen that Sherlock kept another mobile, but he hadn't given John the number.

As the day wore on, John's unease grew and grew. Several more texts were met with no response at all until at last a message came through.
    
    
      Coliseum. 19:30. Meet there.
      GM

So that was that. There would be no sharing of information, no formulation of strategies. He had not gotten through to Sherlock after all. Sherlock would go ahead with whatever he had planned all along—dangle Molly Hooper into a trap as bait and wait for it to snap shut, hoping he had caught what he was looking for.

When the time came, John dressed for the evening slowly and meticulously in his full three-piece herringbone blue suit and a crisply-pressed, snow white shirt. For his pocket square and tie, he chose a deep red silk. The colour of blood. Danger. Rage. Passion. Love.

He had made sure the bedroom was tidied and all his things put away in their proper places in the bathroom, bureau, and wardrobe. He set his laptop case next to his empty travel bag, and looked at his sidearm where he'd left it on top of the soft, dove grey duvet. He tried to ring Harry, but she didn't answer, and John didn't leave a message. Instead, he picked up the cash-stuffed envelope Sherlock had flung at him the night before, found a pen, and wrote Harry's name and address on the front along with a note to Mrs Hudson. _Please deliver_. He tucked the envelope into his bureau drawer, under his green socks.

He hadn't brought a holster, so the inner pocket of his overcoat would have to do for the SIG. He paused as he caught sight of himself in the suite's entryway mirror.

This time the hollow man he'd so often seen in his mirror at home did not stare back at him. He may have been hired for what could most charitably be called _care_ , but he had made a decision yesterday that care would be on his own terms. And, yes, damn it, he did _care_ for Sherlock. He cared and comforted and cajoled, and took pleasure in both the process and the results. He was a caretaker. He was a doctor, but he was not _just_ a doctor.

He was also a soldier. _Old habits die hard_.

He picked up his mobile and Lestrade's card and dialled. It rang through to voice mail. "Detective Inspector, this is John Watson. Sherlock's…friend. There are some things he hasn't told you about your case. Some things you need to know. For…for the sake of everyone involved."

As he launched into the details of what he knew of Sherlock's association with Philip Spencer, John closed the door behind him and prepared for the battlefield.

 

+++

 

Sherlock was waiting in front of the theatre, standing at the top of a short flight of concrete stairs and leaning against one of the dark columns of the Coliseum's façade. His arms were folded and his face grave. He was dressed and groomed in Gabriel March's style—hair combed into a rich, dark sweep that ended smoothly at the top of his coat collar. He was wearing the blue cashmere scarf from John.

When he saw John jogging across St Martin's Lane toward him, Sherlock pushed himself off the column, eyes widening as though he were surprised. Had he not expected John to show up? By the end of the evening, if all went _well_ , John was acutely aware Sherlock may very well be furious with him. Hate him, even, for throwing a spanner into the gears of all his plans up to this point.

"I’m sorry," John breathed out when he reached Sherlock, who had stepped down to the pavement to meet him. "That…I'm late."

"Opening night never starts on time." Sherlock's gaze swept John but he did not extend a hand toward him. He seemed as wary of John as John was feeling of him. "And I'm not to meet Spencer until the interval."

If all did _not_ go well…John's heart started to pump harder. The images flashed rapidly before his mind's eye: _Sherlock, lips parted wide with his head thrown back in ecstasy. Sherlock with his jaw set stubbornly, his lower lip thrust out in an unintentionally seductive pout. That rare, shy smile. The smooth, hot touch of his skin under his fingertips and the rumble of his laughter against his chest._ John curled and uncurled his hand in a fist and nodded toward the entrance. "Shall we?"

Their tickets were for a private box at the upper circle level of the theatre. They made their way in mutual silence through the ornate, Victorian-styled lobby and the thinning crowd of patrons headed for their own seats. On his guard and unfamiliar with the layout of the interior, John followed closely behind Sherlock. As they walked, he discretely scanned faces and plotted strategic escape routes, watchful for any sign of Spencer, or even the actor Richard Brook. He was wired and ready, but also calm. His breathing had settled into a slow, steady pattern and his eyelids drooped just a little, giving the impression he was disinterested in his surroundings. Unthreatening. Bland.

Their box was the last at the end of the upper gallery, so they were alone by the time they reached it and opened the entry door. The box was meant for four seats, but it appeared they were to have it to themselves. Sherlock closed the wooden door behind them and John slipped out of his coat, giving the SIG a subtle check in its pocket, and folded it over the back of one of the spare armchairs. As he transferred his mobile to his suit jacket pocket, he held the phone low beside his body and gave the message indicator an anxious check for any contact from Lestrade. Where the _hell_ was he?

"I told him not to answer your calls."

John jolted at Sherlock's low voice, behind him and bent close to his ear, and wondered for a split second if he had inadvertently spoken the question aloud. He went still and swallowed. "Who?"

Sherlock's rested his fingers on the back of John's wrist, an acknowledgement of the phone in John's hand. "Lestrade," he said evenly.

The great glass-domed auditorium, from the murmuring sea of patrons on the ground floor washing through the plush red velvet stalls to the orchestra warming up instruments in the pit to the golden cherubs and charioteers standing sentry atop the high walls, was filled with cacophonous sound. It echoed through John's head, jumbled up with his thoughts, giving voice to the chaos of his emotions. He turned slowly to look up into Sherlock's eyes. They were unreadable, his face in shadow.

"You were with Lestrade?" he asked, almost uncertain he had heard Sherlock correctly. "When I phoned him?"

"Yes."

"You've been with _Lestrade_. Today."

"And Miss Hooper. All day. Until moments before I met you, in fact." Sherlock tilted his head down a few degrees, and his eyes flashed in the dim light. "Your messages to him were very thorough. I was impressed."

John blanched. "You heard—"

"All of them." Sherlock regarded him steadily. "Except the last. He wouldn't let me hear it. What did that one say?"

_Ring me back, you fucking bastard. I don't know who else to call. I thought this was important to you. I thought you were his friend, too, at least for his brother's sake. Please. I can't trust him to just anyone, Lestrade, can't you see that? Please._

"Mostly…just…swearing by then," John muttered, then blinked in realization. "He already knew? You _told_ him?"

"Everything."

"When you say _everything_ —"

" _Everything_ , John."

"And…and Molly Hooper?"

"Everything."

"So…"

"He's here. Concealed, of course. With his team. Molly agreed to go ahead with the meeting, although we've _altered_ the data she's providing a bit. And she has an early prototype of the fabric sample, not the final version. Lestrade is keeping an eye on her personally. They'll take Spencer as soon as the exchange is made."

John stared, open-mouthed. "And…Spencer's employer?"

Sherlock looked away.

"Sherlock, I—" John wasn't sure what words he bit back as the house lights flashed. _I'm so happy. I’m so proud. I'm so sorry. I'm so—I'm so afraid this is all over now._

"We should take our seats, John."

"Sherlock, they're right here, they aren't going anywhere. Are you—are you all right?"

Sherlock's voice was flat. "Of course I'm all right."

"You're angry with me. For calling Lestrade" John nodded and pressed his shoulders down resolutely. "I understand. Sherlock, I--"

"You think I’m _angry_ with you?" Sherlock gave him a push at the centre of his chest. Two backward steps for John and one forward step for Sherlock ended with them partially concealed from any onlookers by the fall of the purple curtain decorating the arch of their box. Sherlock swooped down and kissed him—a kiss that pulled his breath and his heart and his fear out of him as Sherlock's hands rose to pull his body closer. John tugged at the scarf Sherlock still wore, pulling him closer by two handfuls of cashmere. Sherlock slid his mouth to John's ear and whispered, "I’m not angry."

John slipped his hands under Sherlock's coat and suit jacket. His body was warm and his heart was pounding as hard as John's. "Do they have a coat room here? Or a…supply cupboard?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "The building covers an acre, John, there are all sorts of rooms. Why?"

"Because," John whispered urgently, "I'd like to take you into one right now, tear your clothes off, and bury myself so far inside you you'd feel me for the rest of your life."

His throat constricted as soon as he realized the words _rest of your life_ had rushed out with the rest, unedited, but his terror was allayed by the fact that Sherlock suddenly seemed to be having trouble drawing in breath. "I…as intriguing as that…I…" He cleared his throat hard. "John, we have to stay focussed."

"I know," John nodded. "Yeah, I know. I am. Focussed."

"But…after…" Sherlock murmured.

John's smile spread slowly. There was going to _be_ an _after_. "Count on it."

The house lights flashed again.

Trying not to beam, John settled into one of the upholstered chairs—red velvet to match the seats on the floor of the auditorium and the deep red carpet—and waited while Sherlock removed his coat and sat himself next to John. The volume of ambient noise in the theatre had decreased significantly to a low, expectant murmur. The orchestra had gone silent.

"So we have half an opera to get through," John muttered, rubbing his hands over his knees.

Sherlock smirked at him. "You might actually enjoy it. The music's very powerful."

John made a noncommittal sound and took the programme Sherlock was offering. He scanned the synopsis. "About a courtesan, is it? Well…I suppose that has some potential." He gave Sherlock an extremely dry look. "I don't suppose she has a heart of gold?"

Sherlock returned his look and responded with equal dryness, "I'm reliably informed the best courtesans do."

John snorted a laugh and looked toward the stage. "Sherlock?" he said quietly as the lights dimmed.

"Mm?"

"If I forget to tell you later…I've had a really good time this week."

Sherlock glanced at John uncertainly, as if checking whether or not he was making some sort of joke. When John gave him a small, sincere smile, Sherlock dropped his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

The audience applauded as the heavy purple proscenium curtains parted. The conductor raised his baton and the violins, joined shortly by a solo clarinet, began to play a sweet, high melody.

 

+++

 

The rich baritone soared as the courtesan's devastated lover rushed into the night toward inevitable tragedy. Familiar with the action and the aria, Sherlock's attention was instead taken entirely with John, whose lack of enthusiasm for the opera had melted away by the time Alfredo declared his love for Violetta in the first act. He was sat forward in his chair, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and rapt, as though he might miss an important bit of the music if he swallowed or blinked.

When the scene concluded, John applauded vigorously until he looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Sherlock's openly-displayed amusement. "All right. Fine. Just…shut it," he muttered with a sheepish grin. "I like it."

_And I like you_ , Sherlock thought, then frowned in surprise at himself. Not just want. _Like_. It was a _small_ word, describing a mild sensation, applied just as easily to a breakfast food or a pair of shoes. Why did it feel so… _big_?

John saw the brief frown and interpreted it as concern over their pending meeting. His expression turned serious. "Yeah. We should go."

"We're to meet at the Balcony Bar, top of the building. It shouldn't be very crowded," Sherlock said as John donned his coat. "Lestrade and his team will be in place. It should be…over quickly."

"Sherlock…" John paused with his hand on the door, raising his eyes to Sherlock's. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he gave a little shake of his head and the look passed. "Ready?"

He gave John a small nod. "Yes."

John nodded back, all reassuring confidence, and pushed the door open.

As they exited their box and turned in the direction of the stairs, John was just in front of Sherlock— _just_ in front of him—as a hand wrapped around Sherlock's mouth from behind. It was followed immediately by a forearm against his windpipe, and he was yanked backward, almost off his feet. He was dragged through a discretely curtained door at the end of the gallery. John was merging with the other exiting patrons, and just turning around to say something to him as the door closed in front of Sherlock.

He kicked a leg behind him in the darkened space he found himself in and received a tightening of pressure, a sharp jerk against his throat in response.

"Shhh, pet, shhh," Spencer whispered in his ear. "None of that. We've just had a change of venue."

Sherlock struggled for air, stumbling backward on his heels, and Spencer's arm tightened a little more.

"I wanted to get you alone, you see. It seems your _assistant_ has become a little too attached to you. He's sweet, though. I can see why you like him. Did he tell you about our chat? Did he appreciate the little souvenir I gave you at yesterday's match?" Spencer ran a thumb roughly over the sore spot on Sherlock's lower lip. "What's that, love? I can't hear you."

Sherlock drew a great gasp of air into his lungs when Spencer finally released the pressure on his throat. "John," he croaked as the stars cleared from his vision.

"Yes, that's right, we were discussing John."

Spencer started moving backward again, dragging Sherlock along by his neck. With a weaker man or less experienced man, Sherlock would have had more options to break his hold, but Spencer kept him off-balance, kept his legs and body out of Sherlock's reach. Sherlock tucked his chin into the crook of Spencer's arm to ease the pressure on his throat as much as he could and let himself be manoeuvred. His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkened space, one Spencer seemed familiar enough with to move through without hesitation. It appeared to be a service hallway, but not a commonly-used one, wooden-floored and smelling of dust. They were passing empty crates, side hallways and doors, stacks of boxes, and in one corner what looked like a coat rack draped with feather boas.

"I'm surprised you didn't recognize that _friend_ of his at the match yesterday," Spencer went on in a manically cheerful voice. "Or don't you read the papers? Maybe you _did_ recognize him. Did you, Gabriel, my darling?"

With a sharp turn, Spencer reversed direction and slammed Sherlock into a wall. Sherlock's sore wrist and the side of his face both hit the wall painfully, but only hard enough to stun him for a moment. When he turned around he saw the glint of metal in Spencer's raised hand. Spencer was smiling, too close for Sherlock to run from a bullet, too far away to overpower.

"I don't know what the _hell_ you're talking about, Spencer," Sherlock rasped in Gabriel's petulant, frightened voice. "You've gone m-mad. We had a deal. I just want what I paid for. Where's the contact from Morse? I _paid_. We had a _deal_." He did not have to force his voice to rise to a squeak on the last word.

Spencer's smile gleamed white in the darkness. "You're not quite finished paying, yet." He motioned with his gun. "Now walk. End of the hall, up the stairs."

Sherlock hesitated. "Where are we going?"

"I said _walk_ ," Spencer said sharply. "I've got your money. We'll have the girl from Morse and her basket of treats shortly. I've nothing to lose if I have to shoot you."

Sherlock huffed and turned to follow Spencer's directions. After two flights of stairs, he pushed open a metal fire-door that gave onto the roof. The cool air that hit him burned against the line across his throat where Spencer's arm had been. He'd left his scarf draped over one of the chairs in their box. Why had he done that? He blinked up at the heavy clouds hanging low in the sky. To his right, he could see the top of the Coliseum's spinning globe.

"Outside. All the way, dear. Keep walking."

Sherlock walked steadily toward the centre of the grey expanse of rooftop. The access door slammed shut and he turned, eyeing Spencer warily. "We aren't meeting anyone here, are we?" he asked, exaggerating both his ignorance and fear with a tremble of his lower lip.

"Of course we aren't, you _moron_." Spencer raised the gun. "I know, it's a disappointment. For me as well. The _romantic_ exchange in the bar, sliding a briefcase under the table, just like _real_ spies. They always love that sort of thing, my clients. You're all _morons_. That way," Spencer gestured sharply to his left with his gun.

Sherlock followed his gesture, walking slowly, hesitantly. If Spencer had to get closer, he might have his chance at the gun.

"I love it too, of course. The _theatre_ of it all, if you'll pardon my little joke. That's what makes it fun for me, too." Spencer talked on as Sherlock neared the edge of the rooftop. "Well…that and the killing. Stop there. Up."

Sherlock swallowed and stepped onto the low ledge. He glanced over the edge. The drop was five storeys to the ground below, a small area set off the main pavement where several large, dark vehicles were parked. Nothing to break a fall. There was a large vent to his far right he might make it behind if he dove for cover, which was starting to look like an _excellent_ option.

But Spencer liked to talk. That was another option.

"Do you always kill your clients?" Sherlock asked, making his own voice conversational now, with a carefree lilt to match Spencer's.

"We'd _planned_ something quite different for you, my dear Gabriel. You really are special, you know." Spencer smiled appreciatively.

" _We_ ," Sherlock breathed, looking around the rooftop. "Did you bring a friend?"

Spencer shrugged, waving the word away with his pistol, unconcerned by any disclosures now that he had Sherlock where he wanted him. "I get to play with the toys. He just likes to watch."

"Is he watching now?"

"He'll be making your rendezvous at the Balcony Bar for you," Spencer smiled slyly, "And won't your contact be surprised to see him?"

"So Molly Hooper isn't one of _your_ toys?" Sherlock lifted his chin, waiting for Spencer's reaction. "She's _his_."

"She—" The gun snapped back up and Spencer's leer slid away. "How do you know her name? I never told you her name."

"Didn't you?" Sherlock smirked. _Now_ there was something Spencer wanted from him, besides the joy of his tedious taunts.

Spencer's handsome face contorted into an ugly snarl. He strode toward Sherlock, gun raised. " _Who are you?_ "

Sherlock smiled.

"You want to play games, do you? Here's a game—" he stepped onto the ledge alongside Sherlock, pointing the barrel of his weapon at Sherlock's head. He took another step toward Sherlock.

Sherlock's teeth pressed together. _Closer_. The wind stirred his hair.

"—I'm going to see if you can fly, angel. And then I'm going to find your little Molly Hooper and I'm going to burn off her face and cut off her hands and tie them into her hair and put her on a pole for the crows. Does _that_ sound like a fun game?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. _Closer_. "You do sound _very_ enthusiastic. Particularly as regards Miss Hooper. Why? Did she touch something that belongs to you? I thought you said he only liked to _watch_."

Spencer took another step forward. "As if he would _touch_ that insipid little _bitch_."

"I seeee," Sherlock breathed, smiling. "My assistant isn't the only one who's a little too attached."

"Don't think I don't see what you're doing."

_Closer_. "People _do_ get attached to their pets."

"I’m not his _pet_. He _needs_ me." With a hiss, Spencer lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock by his lapel. Sherlock felt the cold steel of the muzzle of his pistol under his chin.

It was now or never. Sherlock braced himself.

"Let him go." John walked out of the darkness. "Or I _will_ kill you."

Sherlock stared. John had a pistol of his own levelled at Spencer. His hand was steady. His jaw was set. His eyes were like stone.

" _Ha! You_. If you shoot me, _John_ , I take your pretty man with me," Spencer widened his eyes at John, and then glanced up at Sherlock teasingly, "Or doesn’t that matter to you?"

"You'll be dead. Either way." John's voice was steel. "Or doesn't that matter to you?"

Spencer's upper lip curled with rage. The gun muzzle jutted harder into Sherlock's jaw.

If Sherlock gave him a hard shove, John would have a shot. He hoped he was a _good_ shot. He drew back, just a little, just enough to push—

Before he could move, a gunshot cracked through the night.

As he was jerked sideways, the smooth sole of his shoe sliding over the concrete edge of the building, Sherlock's senses sharpened. He felt the damp in the air, like a cloud brushing his cheek. He heard the drift of laughter and conversation from the street, and clearly picked out the word _dancing_. He was actually quite a good dancer, although he could not remember the last time he had danced. He smelled pasta sauce, of all things. He would have liked to take John to his favourite Italian restaurant. What was it John was going to say to him before they left the box? What would Sherlock have answered back? _I like you, John. I had a good time, too._

The world fell away from under his feet. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!
> 
> OK, not really. :-) This was another long-ish update pause, I know. The Thanksgiving holiday and the BBC conspired to get the better of me. With more holiday and some shall we say uber-BBC upcoming, I will be doing my best to keep to my posting schedule. (Originally I'd thought to have posting finished by the end of November--ahhh ha haha, how foolish I am.) Bear with me and thank you so much for your kudos/comments so far--they make my days, every single one. <3


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock's fingers scrabbled on the concrete ledge, one hand strong, one hand weak, and it was not enough to hold him. The meaty thump and the crush of glass from far below were wiped away in the rush of wind and thrumming blood in his ears. His palms burned, sliding, then his fingers, then his fingertips.

His eyes rolled wildly in terror, the same terror that was blinding him while his slick shoes scuffed uselessly at the wall, the same terror that laughed at the idea that he had thought for a moment that intellect conquered all. There was no sound now but a roaring, the oncoming wave of mortality, until a hand clamped his wrist and John's voice broke through.

"Sherlock! Hold on!"

Sherlock swung his injured arm from the ledge to John's wrist and clawed for a hold. John's other hand reached out and his fingers dug into the fabric of Sherlock's jacket sleeve. Clung to him. Sherlock clung back, swallowing great gulping breaths. He couldn't see John's face. Just arms. Then hair.

Then his eyes, dark and huge and deep like the sea, that oncoming wave. John was his lifeline, his buoy, his anchor so he didn't fall, no, wait, fly away—he was going to fly away.

He could see John's shoulders. Then his back.

John was sliding over the edge with him.

"Let go!" he gasped. Too heavy. He was too heavy and John was sliding.

Veins stood out in John's forehead. Lines of strain scored his face and his teeth were clenched. "I will _not let you fall_."

" _John_ —"

" _I. Will. Not._ "

Footsteps and yelling and the _whump_ of a body landing next to John's and then there was a second set of hands on him. John stopped sliding. It was working. John's weight shifted. The hands pulled Sherlock up him by his arms, then his shoulders, grabbing handfuls of his clothing and hauling _up_.

As soon as he was able, Sherlock scrambled over the ledge on his knees and landed, panting, half on top of John, half on the floor of the roof. He ran one hand over the cold, rough-pebbled texture and felt the pain of grit rubbing into his palms. Pain was _wonderful_.

Sherlock pressed himself up on one elbow and stared at John. He was wide-eyed, looking up at the flat grey sky with a baffled, wondering expression, as though he could see through the dull clouds to the infinite depth of stars above them.

John turned his face slowly toward Sherlock. Their eyes met and there was nothing else. Sherlock stared and he was falling again.

A hand on Sherlock's shoulder shook him roughly and sound flooded back into his world. He gasped sharply and blinked the stars out of his eyes.

"Jesus!" Lestrade was sprawled on his side beside Sherlock. He used Sherlock's shoulder to pull himself up to an awkward leaning position on his elbow and looked back and forth between Sherlock and John anxiously. "Sherlock! All right? John? Are you both all right?"

There was shouting now. One voice. Then another. Footsteps, running. A torch beam swept across the surrounding darkness.

"Fine. Yes. I'm fine." Sherlock's own voice sounded curiously distant to him, as if it came from some timid doppelganger just out of his line of sight. He summoned it back to him with a sharp inhalation, and spoke again with self-possession. " _We're fine._ "

Behind Lestrade, Sally Donovan walked to the edge of the rooftop and peered over, pulling a disgusted face at what she saw below. "That one isn't."

Lestrade lumbered and groaned his way to his feet and went to stand beside his sergeant. He looked down. "Shit. Sally, get down there, take care of it, and don't let anyone—"

There was a horrified cry from the pavement below. Spencer's body had apparently been spotted.

"Too late," Sally said grimly, her eyes sliding over Sherlock and John with a look of disapproving suspicion.

" _Shit_ ," Lestrade muttered, swiping a hand through his untidy, greying hair. "Sally, just—"

"I know! I'm going." The bottom of Sergeant Donovan's tan coat whipped past Sherlock's face as she headed for the stairs, already barking orders into her radio.

Lestrade turned and looked down at Sherlock, who had pulled himself up into an awkward, loose-limbed seated position. "Are you sure you're all right?" Lestrade asked again.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock frowned. He leaned forward and rolled up to a standing position, silently grateful his legs did not collapse under him. He hadn't been entirely certain they would hold him yet. He reached for John, but John was already on his feet.

"I heard a shot fired," Lestrade said, with a pointed look at John. "You wouldn't be able to tell me anything about that, would you?"

John opened his mouth, and Sherlock stepped quickly in front of him. "Lestrade, Spencer had a gun. Pointed at my head, in fact."

"Sherlock—" John said behind him.

"I'd suggest your team focus on recovering _Spencer's_ weapon rather than concerning themselves with any _other_ —"

"Sherlock. It wasn't me."

Sherlock turned to stare at John. "What?"

"What?" Lestrade repeated.

John licked his lips and drifted a careful look toward Lestrade. "Yes, I…was prepared. But I didn't have a clean shot."

Sherlock's brow furrowed with confusion. "John…I understand if…there was no other option."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, do you really think I'd shoot you off a rooftop? It was…I _almost_ …I thought you might give me an opening, but it _wasn't me._ It came from—" John turned and pointed toward a shadowy area across the roof. "—over there."

" _Shit_ ," Lestrade hissed, eyes widening, then bellowed, "Off the roof! _Everyone off the roof NOW!_ "

"If he'd wanted to kill us—" John started to protest.

"He'll be long gone—" Sherlock began.

"Shut up and _move_ ," Lestrade growled, giving them both a hard shove.

 

+++

 

Lestrade and his team performed a fast and efficient search of the accessible areas of the rooftop and then of the stairwell and service hallway Spencer had dragged Sherlock through. It proved, as Sherlock had declared from the onset, fruitless. A low, muttered conversation between Sherlock and Lestrade had persuaded the DI at last and ended the search entirely. Even though John could clearly see that _Lestrade_ was frustrated, Sherlock looked almost giddy.

He didn't know what was fuelling Sherlock's excitement, but John was definitely feeling his own adrenaline high. Lestrade's search had been performed quickly, but each second of it scraped across John's impatient skin like sandpaper. He didn't want to _stand about_ like this. He wanted to howl and run and hit. He wanted to have Sherlock against a wall with his trousers around his ankles, to rage into, to rejoice into.

He ran his thumbs over and over his fingertips in a repetitive circular motion, savouring the tingle of enhanced sensation, but otherwise breathed slowly and willed his body to remain controlled as he watched Sherlock speak with Lestrade.

Someone had found the lights in the hallway. The menacing shapes John had hurtled past in his frantic pursuit of Sherlock and Spencer were rendered harmless, although still a bit surreal. Just a few steps after they'd left their box at the start of the interval, John had turned to speak to Sherlock and he wasn't there anymore. There had been no question in John's mind that Sherlock was in danger, and the jolt of raw fear had stripped away everything but _get him back_. He ran back to the end of the gallery and spotted the service door immediately, moving with a focussed clarity and certainty he had learned in the army to heed without question. He called it instinct. He'd checked only a few side doors, which he'd found locked, as he was phoning Lestrade. Perhaps Sherlock could have told John if there were clues evident once he was inside the hallway that drove him toward the stairs to the roof—scuff marks in the dust, visible to his fear-dilated eyes, or boxes shuffled out of place, or something like that.

The interval had ended and the music currently being performed sounded light and frivolous to John's ear—almost mocking. He'd got one thing wrong. There _was_ a sniper, but it had not been Spencer after all. He'd got it wrong and Sherlock had almost died.

He smiled tightly to himself. _Almost_.

Lestrade and his team were filtering out from the service hallway to the gallery, and John made to follow. He was pulled back by a hand on the back of his coat collar, practically scruffed, and then it was he who found himself backed against a wall. He barely registered the sounds of a discrete cough and the door to the gallery closing as Sherlock's body pressed into his, completely surrounding him, with his forearms against the wall on either side of John's shoulders and his thighs braced against John's.

Sherlock's breath puffed hot against John's ear for several long moments, both of them tense and expectant and still.  

"John." Sherlock's voice dropped. "What you did. Up there."

"No. Shut up," John gulped, squeezing a handful of Sherlock's jacket into his fist. "Kiss me. You haven't kissed me."

Sherlock's head dipped toward John's, but instead of kissing him Sherlock hooked his fingers around John's coat collar, yanking it aside. He pressed his nose to John's neck and smelled him, a deep, animalistic inhalation of his scent.

Then there was a growl that seemed to form somewhere in the press between their hips. John wasn't sure whose throat it rose through, but then Sherlock's teeth were on his neck, as far inside his shirt collar and jacket as he could get, biting and sucking a hard mark. John gasped at the sudden pain and pleasure and threw his head to the side, baring his throat for more. " _Harder_ ," he demanded, taking a fistful of Sherlock's hair.

With a savage sound, Sherlock complied, and the thrill of it sizzled from John's neck to his groin like a jolt of electricity.

"Fuck me," he heard himself gasp. He felt raw. He felt wild.

"John, no, I have to..." A shudder ran through Sherlock's body, but he pulled reluctantly away from John. " _What you did_ ," he repeated stubbornly, his voice tight. He moved his left arm to circle, no… _cradle_ John's head. "You were _falling_."

"You were falling _more,_ you…idiot."

"John, that doesn't make any sense. The physics—"

"Fuck the _physics_." John tugged on Sherlock's hair, trying to pull his head down again. His voice had turned gravelly. "And I said _fuck me_. Didn't you hear me?"

Sherlock stared at him and then—the _bastard_ — _laughed_ , a bubbling, almost crazed giggle. "I thought _you_ wanted to—"

" _Yes_. Fuck _you_ ," John groaned. "Fuck _me_ , anything, I don't _care_ , I just…I just _want_."

Sherlock's humour vanished as abruptly as it had manifested. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed himself closer to John. He was hard, too. "No time," he muttered.

"Fuck _time_."

"No, John. I want…"

"Good. Yes. Me too. Come on. Hurry up."

"John." Sherlock's hand squeezed the back of John's neck as he lowered his head to John's ear. His voice descended to its lowest rumble, the thunder of a distant storm. "No. I need...I want it to be… _slow_."

_Slow_. A shiver of anticipation rippled over John's skin, and he arched into Sherlock with an inarticulate sound. They held each other, breathing raggedly with their bodies moulded against each other, for what seemed like a long time and not nearly a long enough time. Sherlock stroked long fingers up and down John's neck and into his hair. When John moved to slide his other arm around Sherlock's shoulders, he sucked in a quick, hissing inhalation of pain.

Sherlock drew back, concerned. "Shoulder?"

"Yeah. It hurts. A bit." John grimaced. Then he smiled. Then started to laugh. His cock still ached with need. His shoulder felt full of glass. "It _hurts_. It's…it's _fantastic_." He laughed because this was not the kind of pain where the sand of your hopes was falling through your fingers—this was the kind of pain you owned and threw back in the face of despair. _Fuck you. I'm still alive. I feel so alive._ He laughed like a madman.

Sherlock's grin reappeared, as wide and as mad as John's. Answering laughter rumbled up from his belly, a deep, rich sound that sparkled in Sherlock's eyes even as it lit the tinder in John's chest. They were both alive and they were both mad.

"God, Sherlock, I love—"

"I _know_ , John," Sherlock's laughter turned breathless, his eyes shining. "You love this. Just as I do. You're _like me_."

John caught himself mid-breath. "This?"

" _This_ ," Sherlock waved an arm at nothing in particular, indicating _everything_ around them. "The danger. The excitement. I knew as soon as I saw you tonight, ready for _action_."

"What do you mean… _as soon as you saw me_?"

Sherlock's smile widened to its most ridiculously lopsided, gleeful version. "You haven't noticed yet?"

"Noticed _what_?"

"John…where is your cane?"

John frowned and looked down at his legs. He looked at the wall, where his cane should be resting. He'd left it on the roof? No. He'd left it in the box? No. Jesus. He'd left it at the _hotel_. How…? He blinked up at Sherlock owlishly. "I…I was only thinking of…"

"Ethics?" Sherlock's grin twitched.

John huffed an amazed and bewildered laugh. "Something like that."

Sherlock sobered. "So that's what it was."

"What?"

"What you did. Up there." Sherlock's face creased into an uncertain frown. "That was also…ethics?"

John swallowed down hard on the image of Spencer's head snapping back as a bullet took it, his body and Sherlock's tumbling in slow-motion over the edge of the roof. His chest tightened so painfully for a moment he had to force himself to breathe. He'd seen far too many people die. Some of them he'd killed himself. Others he had been powerless to save. _Not this time_. John licked his lips and nodded slowly as his right hand stole up to brush an escaped curl away from Sherlock's temple. "Yeah," he whispered. "Something like that."

"It was…good." Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, suddenly awkward. "John, I—"

"Come on," John nodded toward the door, sliding past Sherlock. "You're right. We should go."

Sherlock followed him out without protest. They retrieved Sherlock's coat and scarf from their box and found Lestrade in the main lobby with Molly Hooper. The space felt surreal and cavernous with only the few of them and a handful of curious theatre staff present. John fancied he could hear each of his footfalls on the wine-red carpet, even over the muffled music from the grand auditorium. A duet between two baritones seemed to hover in the gold-painted domes above them, like the voices of troubled angels.

Molly had Lestrade's jacket draped over her shoulders and pulled close around her small frame. She was shivering a bit, but looked otherwise calm.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked when he spotted her. "The exchange. What happened?"

"I'm fine." Molly shrugged. "Because _nothing_ happened. No one came."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Interesting," he said softly, although he nodded as though that was the answer he'd been expecting.

Lestrade walked over to join them, placing a hand on Molly's shoulder. "We were all ready and waiting in the Balcony Bar when I got John's call."

"Glad you decided to answer _that_ one," John muttered both grimly and gratefully.

Lestrade shot him look that acknowledged both levels of meaning. "Yeah, well, I left Molly with Barrett and MacPherson to monitor the exchange, make sure she was safe, but I guess _you_ were the main event after all, Sherlock."

"Mm," Sherlock's mouth twisted into a darkly appreciative smile. "Apparently so. This isn't about Molly or Morse Industries' aramid synthetic any more. This is a _new_ game. And _that_ was the opening move."

John did not miss the way Sherlock's eyes were lit with interest nor the way the intrigued smile lingered on his lips. "And that would make this new player…Spencer's employer?"

Sherlock's smile widened. "The very same. And now we know who he is. Well…in a manner of speaking." He looked expectantly from John to Lestrade to Molly.

"We do?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock huffed annoyance when his expectant silence was met with blank looks. "Of course we do."

"Who, Sherlock, who is it?" John asked a little impatiently.

"Richard Brook, of course."

One of Molly's hands flew to her mouth. "You said he was an _actor_."

"An actor, yes, and apparently quite a good one. Playing a puppet when he is in fact the puppeteer. Hiding in plain sight. Clever. _Very_ clever."

"Richard Brook." John frowned. "Couldn't he still be here? Backstage? In the audience? If he likes to hide in plain sight, that would be a great place to hide, wouldn't it?" A soprano had struck up a mournful aria now, and he imagined Richard Brook, average-looking Richard Brook with his soulful dark eyes, peering out from the blackness behind the stage.

"It's a good thought, John," Sherlock nodded at him approvingly, "but I don't think so. He's careful and this place will be of no use to him any longer. I expect the ENO will find itself short one minor part in this production as of tonight."

"Why are you so sure it's _him_?" Lestrade chimed in. "That he's not just an actor?"

"Because Spencer told me," Sherlock said with a satisfied smile. "On the roof. John, you were there. You must have heard."

John's brow furrowed in his attempt to recall some of the last of Philip Spencer's words. _My assistant isn't the only who's too attached_. "He said…he wasn't a pet."

"Good," Sherlock encouraged.

"He wasn't _Brook's_ pet. Confirmation. Spencer worked for Brook, not the other way around."

"Worked?" asked Molly tentatively. "He doesn't anymore?"

"Yeah, about that…" Lestrade held his radio up in one hand and nodded toward the exit. "I should see how Sally's getting on with the…clean-up. Do you need to see the body, Sherlock?"

Molly blinked. " _Body_?"

Lestrade gave her an apologetic look.

"You were…on the roof," she murmured, casting a glance toward the pavement visible through the lobby windows. She winced.

"No," Sherlock answered Lestrade's question, "Spencer's told me all he needed to."

"Well, stay put, you two. I need statements," Lestrade ordered, turning toward the exit.

"You don't want to see Miss Hooper safely home first?" Sherlock asked lightly.

Lestrade paused mid-step.

Sherlock turned to Molly. "You should know that _you_ were instrumental in my discoveries about Richard Brook."

"I…I was? How?"

John tensed, recalling a few of the words he'd overheard from Spencer in relation to Molly. As he hoped, Sherlock's answer thankfully omitted those details.

"Spencer was quite jealous of you, actually," Sherlock said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Of your relationship with Brook. It was the edge I needed."

" _Jealous_?" Molly's nose wrinkled. "Why? We only went out three times." Then a horrified look stole across her face and her eyes flew to Lestrade's. "He slept on the sofa!" she blurted out. "I mean. That night. We didn't…he…he slept on the sofa."

Lestrade blinked and then cleared his throat. He dragged his eyes from Molly to Sherlock. "You don't think Brook will come after _Molly_ now? You said it wasn't about the fabric sample anymore."

Molly's face paled.

"No," Sherlock said firmly, looking Molly in the eye. "I don't think he will. He sent no one to complete the exchange, and I doubt your Barrett and MacPherson could have stopped him had he wished her any harm. Spencer might have returned to kill her for the _fun_ of it, but Richard Brook is, I think, a more _forward-thinking_ man. No, Molly's nothing but a pawn to him, and one that's already been played."

Molly nodded at Sherlock, apparently reassured by the _pawn_ classification, but Lestrade was staring at her again with a troubled expression.

"Still…" Lestrade said slowly, "I should make sure you get home safely. Set up a watch on your flat." He gave a decisive nod. "Sherlock, we'll take your statements tomorrow, then."

"As you see fit, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said.

"I won't be long outside with, um, Mr Spencer," Lestrade told Molly. "Sergeant Donovan should have things well in hand." He turned back to Sherlock as he started to walk away and frowned. " _First thing_ tomorrow, Sherlock."

"Of course, Detective Inspector," Sherlock smiled pleasantly.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Sherlock's uncharacteristic good manners, but continued on his way.

"Lestrade, wait," John called after the DI, trotting across the lobby to grip his arm. Lestrade gave him a questioning look. "Just…thanks. For tonight. You saved his life."

"So did you," Lestrade pointed out.

John gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah, but, without you…"

Lestrade smirked self-consciously. "Well. If I let anything happen to himself over there, I suspect Mycroft would come back from the grave to kill me."

John smiled at the genuine affection he heard in Lestrade's voice. "It's good to know he's got someone to look out for him."

Lestrade gave him an odd look. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"John," Sherlock called with an impatient edge to his voice. "We should go."

John clapped Lestrade once on the shoulder and then trotted back to Sherlock's side, feeling unexpectedly light-hearted. " _Now_ you're in a rush?"

"I got us out of statements tonight." Sherlock lifted his chin with a questioning look. "Do you want to keep having chats? Because what I want is to take you home."

_Home_. The word fell off Sherlock's tongue as though he was unaware of its connotation. It was a hotel room, even for Sherlock, not a home. Yet the thought of going _home_ with Sherlock was far from unappealing. What would Sherlock's _home_ be like? Probably still quite posh. Sleek. Functional. Modern. With shiny surfaces and big windows and a big fireplace and a big bed, even though he'd hardly sleep in it.

Sherlock was watching him intently.

John blinked away his vision. "Yeah, um, that's good. Let's go…home," he repeated the word daringly.

After a quick goodbye to Molly Hooper, they stepped out into the night together. The soft reflection of flashing blue lights from the other side of the building bounced off the low clouds, but the street in front of them was quiet and calm, with pedestrians passing by engaged in low conversation and light laughter. The hotel was only a short distance away, but John held Sherlock's arm before he could begin walking away. "Sherlock, um…mind if we take a slightly longer walk back? It's just…" He tapped his right leg with a wondering little smile. "My leg."

"Of course." Sherlock looked down at John's empty cane hand, and bit down on a smile. "John!" The smile turned into a comically startled frown. "I still haven't kissed you, have I?"

"Well. No, actually." John grinned and swayed toward him expectantly. "You haven't.

"If that is of interest to you," Sherlock raised an eyebrow and drew himself up to his full height. "Then consider it incentive to walk _quickly_." He turned and, with an arch _catch-me_ look over his shoulder, strode away down the pavement.

John smiled hugely and set off after him.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was euphorically aroused by the time John pressed him up against the door to his hotel suite.

What should have been a five-minute walk had turned into a fifteen-minute walk as Sherlock led John, as requested, on a longer, circuitous return route to the hotel. What might then have been a fifteen-minute walk turned into a thirty-minute walk as John interrupted their progress to snog Sherlock inside a phone box at the end of St Martin's Lane, in the middle of Trafalgar Square, against a shop window on Northumberland Avenue, and under a tree on the Victoria Embankment.

At several points, quite overcome by John's enthusiasm, Sherlock had to practice the most rigorous mental exercises to ensure he could continue walking normally and get them back to the Rivers where his plan was to bed John immediately and vigorously.

Well, almost immediately. Sherlock recognized that he was not a patient man, and sex with John apparently whipped that impatience into a wanton urgency he had not thought himself capable of. Tonight needed to be _different_ , though.

It had not taken Sherlock's keenest powers of observation to detect the heightened confidence in John's eyes or the power in his stride. John was on fire tonight, but Sherlock felt like he was the one who had been set alight. If _this_ man wanted Sherlock half as much as Sherlock wanted him…the thrill of pride hummed through his veins, sweeter than cocaine.

Now, held here against the threshold of their room by John's hands pressed flat against his stomach, Sherlock's pulse pounded erratically with excitement.

"Key," John prompted in a low, commanding voice, his eyes resting hungrily on Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock fumbled in his coat pocket for the key card, glanced down to orient it correctly, and reached behind his back to slide it through the reader. The lock clicked open in acknowledgement and John moved one hand to press the door handle down. Sherlock felt the door give slightly behind him, but John held it from opening any further.

"Are you sure," John asked, his eyes moving from Sherlock's mouth to his throat. "You still want this _slow_?"

_Breathe_ , Sherlock reminded himself. He loosened his scarf.

" _Yes_ , John," he said, pulling the scarf slowly from around his neck. "Although I do appreciate your…drive." He hooked the scarf over John's head.

"You've not yet appreciated it _nearly_ enough." With a fast grin and a predatory gleam in his eye, John released the door handle.

Sherlock stumbled backward in the suite as the door flew open, pursued closely by John. The soft grey glow of the overcast night sky through the terrace doors and the flicker of firelight lit the otherwise darkened room. The door swung closed behind John with a thick _click_ , shutting off the light from the hallway, and Sherlock received an armful of eagerly amorous John Watson.

" _Cheat_ ," Sherlock murmured delightedly against John's mouth as they exchanged warm, insistent kisses. It was so easy to lose himself in John. He wasn't sure that was a good thing, ultimately, but it _felt_ so very good. He would not lose himself tonight, though. At least not yet. Along the walk home, he had made something of a plan for the evening.  He smiled around a kiss.

They spent several glorious minutes entangled in one another's embrace, pushing each other's coats off, pulling off gloves and—alas—the scarf, before John finally did a double take in the direction of the fire.

"I texted ahead," Sherlock volunteered before John's eyes could form a question. "And there's…" Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded, beaming, toward the silver trolley in the dining area. "Champagne and strawberries."

John stared at him, an amused smile curving his lips. "Seriously?"

"What?" Sherlock's face fell. He thought this was the sort of thing people did, but now he felt suddenly abashed by his little sentimental gesture.

"No, no. Sherlock. I appreciate the seduction scene, I do." John squeezed his arm. "It's just…let me give you a tip: I'm a _sure thing_."

Sherlock's laugh rumbled out, although he dropped his head to hide the warmth he felt spreading over his cheeks. His chest felt like it was expanding wider and wider every time he looked at John.

" _Unless_ …" John drew the word out and narrowed his eyes. "Hang on, when did you you…oh, tell me you were _not_ texting Mrs Hudson whilst I was doing my best to snog you senseless."

"Just the once." Sherlock shrugged with playful innocence and wide eyes. "Idle hands. You should have been more thorough."

" _Ah_ ," John breathed. "So that's how it's going to be. All right then. Turn around. Face the wall."

The wicked glint in John's eyes was impossible to resist. Slowly, Sherlock turned toward the wall, swivelling his head to keep John in his peripheral vision. "And…why am I doing this?"

John flattened one hand against the small of Sherlock's back and pressed him forward, closer to the wall. The firelight flickered over the subtle, raised geometric design of the cream and gold wallpaper. "I’m confiscating your mobile," John informed him sternly.

"No need for that anymore," Sherlock grinned. "And it's in my coat."

"So you _say_ ," John said, "but I've been informed I need to be more _thorough_. Hands up against wall. Well, left hand." John punctuated the qualifier with a quick, gentle touch to Sherlock's right wrist.

Sherlock raised both arms, placing his right hand gingerly against the wall and leaning his weight into his left palm. His wrist should be throbbing by now, he thought, but he was feeling no pain. Was it the same for John with his shoulder? He felt John step in close behind him. He slid his hands from Sherlock's shoulders down his back, around his sides, and into the empty pockets of his suit jacket.

"Jacket's clear," John said with a sharp, professional clip to his voice. "You can take that off now."

With a smirk and thrill down his back at the commencement of a new game, Sherlock slid the jacket from his shoulders and heard John toss it over the back of the nearby chair, atop of the collection of their discarded outerwear. As he resumed his position against the wall, John's hands returned to his shoulders, their warmth more intense now through just the thin fabric of Sherlock's shirt. His firm, unhurried touch repeated the route of inspection down Sherlock's body, a more leisurely and detailed exploration this time, fingertips tracing every small curve of Sherlock's back and waist. He paused at Sherlock's waistband to slip his shirttails free from his trousers.

Instead of reaching underneath the shirt, John's hands moved to Sherlock's thighs, his fingers spread wide. His fingertips squeezed the tight quadriceps muscles just hard enough to feel torturously good. His thumbs skimmed Sherlock's inner thighs, smoothing the fabric of his trousers against the sensitive skin beneath. When John slid his hands up to Sherlock's hips and then inside his trouser pockets, Sherlock emitted an embarrassing hybrid of a giggle and a groan.

"Anything in here?" John asked, very seriously. He moved closer, letting his body touch Sherlock's only lightly, teasing him. "Anything at all?" John's fingertips rubbed warmly into the crease of Sherlock's thighs, so tantalizingly close to the places he wanted them to move next. Sherlock wriggled his hips in frustration.

"See?" John said, and Sherlock could picture the gleam in those dark eyes, "I can do _slow_." John stepped in closer, pressing warmly against Sherlock's backside, and reached for the fastening of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock's thoughts were slowing now, his lower belly tightening with anticipation of John's touch, his jaw aching with _want_. "This…" His voice cracked. "This wasn't the script."

The flies of his trousers eased open, and John tugged the back of his trousers and pants down, just a few inches, and cool breath of laughter fluttered over the freshly exposed skin. "There's a script?" John pressed a damp kiss into the top of the crease between Sherlock's arse cheeks.

Sherlock's mind whited out for a moment as he imagined John's mouth moving lower, his hands spreading him open, gripping his hips, and then a touch, and then a push of wet, probing heat. _Bury myself so far inside you,_ John had said, _you'd feel me for the rest of your life_. God, yes. Sherlock's thighs shook. "Script." He tried to remember the script. Champagne and slow. "Wanted to…I want you…"

John straightened behind him, pressing against him again, reaching this time for the front of Sherlock's shirt. "Well, you're going to have me." Deft fingers released button after button, moving lower. "I promise."

Sherlock's shirt gaped open and _finally_ John's hands touched his body, skin-to-skin, warm and solid against his quivering stomach muscles. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion he felt, and forced air out of his lungs to speak. "Want _you_ to feel this."

John stroked the sensitive skin of Sherlock's waist. "Feel what, love?"

_This_. His bloody script didn't have the words written out. What was _this_? This sensation of a hand, tight and safe around his in the darkness. This sensation of being wrapped in the warmest blanket in front of the warmest fire on the coldest night, staring at the stars and sharing clouds of breath. This sensation of belonging, at last.

"Gratitude," Sherlock tried.

John's hands stilled. "Gratitude." His voice sounded uncertain.

"Yes!" Sherlock pushed himself off the wall, turning to John with a smile that felt remarkably silly and that grew even more ridiculous when his eyes swept John's face. "John, I'm so grateful."

A vertical line formed between John's brows, and he gave a small shake of his head. "Sherlock…"

Unable to contain himself, Sherlock swooped down, giddy for a kiss, and pressed his mouth to John's. John didn't feel it yet—why tonight had to be different—and that was okay. Sherlock was suddenly feeling very persuasive. He wrapped his arms around John, sliding his bare skin against the cool line of buttons on his waistcoat, then reached for the knot of his red tie. "May I?"

The corner of John's mouth quirked up. He lowered his arms and turned his hands palm-up in invitation.

Sherlock paused, letting his eyes sweep down John's body and back up again. He met John's eyes, raised one eyebrow, and said simply, "Suit."

John huffed a little laugh.

_Breathe_ , Sherlock told himself again. His chest felt far too small, like the outside was continuing to shrink while the inside would not stop growing. He hooked a finger around John's tie and pulled. The silk slipped free of his collar with a tantalising whisper. He moved on to the buttons of John's waistcoat, and found himself fumbling. He wrinkled his nose. "Stop it, John."

"Stop what?"

"Being so…so…you make my fingers feel too big."

"Can't say that's an issue for me," John said with a sparklingly bland look.

Sherlock snickered and knocked John's hands away when he raised them to assist. "No! Slow, remember?" He renewed his efforts, slipping another of the troublesome little discs through its buttonhole. "I want this to last."

John lifted a hand to push his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "Also not an issue for me," he said softly.

Sherlock sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. Another button. And another. The firelight was casting a dancing golden glow across John's white shirtsleeves and Sherlock paused in his waistcoat efforts to unbutton the top button of John's shirt so he could see the light flicker in the hollow of John's throat. "Ahh, I will miss this place," he breathed, touching his finger reverently to the spot of gold.

John's body tensed. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock pushed John's collar aside to nuzzle at the crook of his shoulder. "Gabriel March. His identity. His hotel. It's of no use to me now. But I _will_ miss it." John's presence had turned the cold luxury warm.

"Oh." John's fingers twitched in Sherlock's hair. "Right."

"Something _new_ awaits. But _that_ …" He kissed the mark he had left on John's neck earlier that night. "…is for a new day, with no distractions. _We_ …" He kissed the curve of John's jaw. "…have this one night left. And so…" He gathered John close and bit down on the mark, claiming and savouring.

John pushed away from him so abruptly Sherlock stumbled back a step.

"John? Did I hurt you?"

Waving Sherlock off with one hand, John walked quickly toward the bedroom. "I…just need a moment." He sounded a little breathless, and Sherlock grinned, hopeful he was having the same effect on John that John seemed to be having on him.

"Of course. I'll open the champagne!" Sherlock called after him, indulging in a twirl as he crossed the room to the silver trolley. "A celebration deserves champagne." He popped the cork and poured the sparkling liquid into the two fluted glasses Mrs Hudson—a saint, really—had provided. He heard water running in the bathroom when he brought the glasses and a bowl of strawberries into the bedroom. "Remember, John, don't undress! My job!"

+

John stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

So this was to be their last night together.

_Gratitude._

What had he _thought_ was going to happen? Sherlock and he were _in love_ now? A couple, forever and ever, like some kind of _fairy tale_?

Of course Sherlock might feel gratitude after the events on the rooftop. It was not Sherlock who had strayed so far from their agreement. It was not his fault that John felt…more.

John curled his hands into tight fists. He swallowed down his hope and his heartache and set his jaw.  

He was far stronger than he had realized he could be since he had returned from Afghanistan. Tonight had proven that. He had the strength to save Sherlock from that fall. He had the strength to face the fact that his feelings were not returned. And he had the strength to walk away when it was time.

+

While he was toeing off his shoes, Sherlock caught his reflection in the bedroom mirror and frowned. Gabriel March's look, although quite dishevelled at this point. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair roughly, teasing out as many of his own curls as he could. The end result was fairly ridiculous looking, so Sherlock dimmed the light that John had flipped on when he entered the bedroom. Soft light was more romantic anyway, wasn't it? The lower light invited the dancing glow of the firelight from the sitting room into the bedroom. Yes, definitely romantic.

Sherlock leaned over the bed, smoothing a hand over the top of the duvet.

_Making love._

It was a foolishly sentimental term. Maudlin. Ridiculous.

So…how did one go about it?

In John's absence, even for what Sherlock hoped would be just a few moments, Sherlock was beginning to feel a bit nervous about how to proceed. _Why nervous_? There was no rational reason. He and John knew each other's bodies now, had explored with eyes, hands, and mouths. It couldn't be some sort of _shyness_.

Would John even _welcome_ this attempt at lovemaking? The proposed scenarios he had described in vivid whispers to Sherlock along the route home had not been what Sherlock would call romantic, although they had certainly been both imaginative and…stirring. Sherlock did not much care _how_ they got off—John could be inside him, on top of him, upside down on a swing—as long as John was made happy in the process.

In preparation, Sherlock pulled the lube and two condoms from the bedside table and set them out next to the champagne flutes. He frowned. Was that unromantic, too practical, condoms next to strawberries? He moved them to the other side of the table. Better.

John emerged from the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His face was mostly in shadow, but Sherlock could tell he had washed it or splashed water over it. His waistcoat was regrettably now unbuttoned.

"You're right," John said in a low, gravelly voice.

"Of course I'm right," Sherlock said with forced lightness. He would do _anything_ John wanted tonight, truth be told. Anything at all. But his hope still was that John would let him _make love_. Or try. That was the plan. That was the script. And Sherlock was _so_ very nervous. "Right about what?"

"About making the most of tonight."

"Ah, yes, _that_ I am definitely right about." But John wasn't smiling, and Sherlock's laugh felt awkward on his face, so he let it fall away.

It was clear that John's earlier playfulness was gone, and Sherlock did not know how to interpret it. Was something wrong? Or did John, too, feel the _difference_? For a moment, Sherlock regretted his lack of experience in this confluence of sex and emotion, but truly there had been no other opportunity for him to learn. Did lovemaking require solemnity? Perhaps so. Perhaps John was as overwhelmed as he himself felt.

_Breathe_. Sherlock walked around the bed, martialling his courage with slow, deliberate movements, and rested his hands on John's shoulders. This was John, and there was no need to pretend, but that didn't make the words any easier to find.

He gripped John's shoulders intensely, then released his hold immediately when he heard John's quick inhale. _Stupid_. He _was_ in pain. _Pay attention_. _Why_ must he—a brilliant man, no doubt—be so _inept_ when it really _mattered?_  

"Sorry. I'm sorry. John, I do very much want to get this _right_ ," he said earnestly. "For _you_."

John frowned. "This?"

Sherlock's mouth opened, then closed. His throat tightened. _Making love_. Perhaps he shouldn't say it after all. The concept was fairly new to him, at least in a personal context, and he suspected the timing of the incorporation of such strongly-worded sentiment might be inappropriate on his part. John might not take it well. Not that his John would ever be cruel or dismissive in his response, but there were far more hurtful possibilities than simple cruelty.

" _This_." Sherlock made his touch light—caresses, tenderness. He touched John's hair, kissed his face, his lips, ran his fingers down the back of his neck. John stayed silent and still. This time Sherlock's fingers worked smoothly as he released the rest of John's shirt buttons. He pushed the clothing off over John's shoulders and followed the slide of fabric with his mouth, kissing John's injured shoulder softly. " _This_."

John made a very small sound, like a whimper, and swayed toward him.

Sherlock sucked in a breath as the invisible bands compressing his chest burst free. " _John_."

_Slow_ was going to be a _problem_.

He hauled John against his chest, wrapping one arm around his body and shoving the other roughly down the back of his trousers, digging his fingers into the firm swell of flesh beneath. All the anticipation building inside him erupted into ferocious need. All his thoughts of delicacy and control disappeared, sucked into the red cloud of desire that roiled through him. His bent his head to John's neck again, kissing and biting, and ground his swelling cock against John's hip. His tender script disintegrated. Right here, right now, _this_ was how it _should_ be between them.

John came back alive with a growl that answered the one in Sherlock's heart, dragging Sherlock's open shirt off his body. He was going for his trousers as Sherlock walked them two steps backward toward the bed, their mouths locked together in a fierce kiss. The only sounds between them were breathy and wet. Sherlock's wrist twisted painfully as he reached between their bodies to open John's trousers, but it was a small price to have paid once they fell backward onto the bed, John naked on top of him. He squirmed and kicked his own trousers and pants the rest of the way off, unwilling to take his arms from around John's waist again to use his hands. He felt John's erection, hard and hot against his thigh, and twitched his hips to align the heat with his own.

John stretched his arm toward the table, pulling away with a demanding grunt to reach toward the lube and condoms.

"No, come back," Sherlock complained immediately, hooking a leg around John's and tightening his arms. How had he gone for days, hours, even minutes without John Watson writhing naked against him? He could hardly _breathe_ without him. He dragged his lips, the tip of his tongue, and his teeth across John's face, down his neck. Kissing was too slow and he couldn't spare the time for it. The small of John's back was damp with sweat and Sherlock rubbed the sweat he felt on his palm into it as he pressed John's hips closer.

Sherlock heard a _click_ and then John twisted in his arms, reaching behind himself.

"What are you doing?"

John pushed himself off Sherlock, wincing again when he put weight on his shoulder, and with slicked fingers plucked a condom from atop the duvet and flung it toward Sherlock. He hovered on his hands and knees, cheeks flushed, eyes feral, until Sherlock's face registered comprehension. John leaned forward again, going down on one elbow. His breath gusted hot across Sherlock's thighs as he reached back once more to prepare himself.

"No. That's _my_ job, too," Sherlock snapped, baring his teeth. After an inelegant and impatient round of manoeuvres, Sherlock's condom was on, his fingers were slicked, and he was curled around John's body, his right arm under John so his left was free to roam. He reached down, sliding his hand between John's legs, and gave John's balls a slow backward pull. John groaned heavily, and Sherlock dragged a fingertip over his perineum, before pushing one finger gently inside him.

One _long_ finger, he thought smugly, as John whimpered enticingly, pulsed his hips forward, and then pushed them back hard. Sherlock mouthed at the back of John's neck, murmuring encouraging sounds, kissing, as he slid his finger in and out of John again, slowly, and again.

"More," John gasped. His back trembled against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's breath was fast, heart pounding, cock throbbing. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed two fingers into John's tight heat. He blindly kissed the same spot on John's shoulder over and over as he worked his fingers in and out, brushing the backs of the knuckles over John's prostate until John moaned again, " _More_."

Sherlock blinked sweat out of his eyes and groped for the lube, slicking his prick further—probably too much. He pressed himself against John, his cock slipping first between John's thighs and then up between his arse cheeks. Sherlock groaned at the friction.

" _Come on_ ," John panted. He had a hand around his own cock, working himself with fast flicks of his wrist.

Biting his lip almost bloody in concentration, Sherlock reached down, aligned the tip of his straining cock against John, and pushed into him slowly. John inhaled sharply and threw his head back. Sherlock paused, reaching up to stroke John's belly, soft, soothing movements. He eased in a little further…petting…then a little further…until his entire length was inside John.

With a groan, Sherlock wrapped both arms around John and dropped from his side onto his back, rolling John's body on top of his carefully so as not to lose their intimate connection. He moved one hand to John's cock, curved his fingers around the head, and squeezed lightly as he gave his hips a slow roll, sliding himself out of and then deep into John again.

John arched his back across Sherlock's chest, his head falling back on Sherlock's shoulder. He was trembling again. Because of _Sherlock_. _He_ had made John feel this way.

" _John_ ," Sherlock gasped, as his hips set a steady rhythm, sliding in and out of John whilst his fist pumped John's cock almost brutally fast. He pressed his face into John's shoulder, breathing in the smell of his body, the taste of his sweat.

When John came into Sherlock's hand, it was with a choked-off cry that sounded remarkably like a sob, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Sherlock's vision was clouded with stars. He smeared his hands exultantly through the wetness on John's heaving belly and then wrapped his arms around him again and held on as tightly as he could, pounding into him with desperate, ragged grunts.

"God, Sherlock," John cried, his voice breaking. He clutched at Sherlock's sheltering arms. "Don't let me go."

Sherlock threw his head forward with a wild, obscene noise as the first hard pulse of his orgasm hit, then clamped his teeth onto John's shoulder, thighs trembling with strain, pushing into him again and again until he was completely emptied.

He panted against John's shoulder, each breath burning in his lungs. Sherlock understood now why he had been so lost in telling John how he felt: there were no words for this. Making love wasn't about fast or slow, or solemnity, or romance, or whether the condoms were next to the strawberries. It wasn't about any of that _at all_.

John's fingers dug into the flesh of Sherlock's forearms, holding them tight against John's body. "Please don't let me go," he whispered.

 


	14. Chapter 14

John squinted into the bitingly bright rays of sunlight glaring through the bedroom window curtains. He would have preferred a rainy day to match his mood. He steadfastly ignored the two still-full glasses of flat champagne and plate of darkening strawberries on the bedside table as he pulled on his dressing gown. His shoulder had grown stiff during the night and protested the movement with a tight complaint of pain.

Sherlock was sat at the dining table in front of an expansive breakfast, fully dressed in a slim-fitting dark suit and open-necked burgundy shirt. Once again, he had apparently managed to leave bed, shower, and dress without John stirring from his sleep. Instead of a plate, Sherlock's laptop was open on the table in front of him. He closed it when John entered.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock flashed a warm, welcoming grin that made John feel so instantly and automatically safe he almost hated him for it. Almost.

"Good morning," John answered, making an effort at a light tone. He walked around the table behind Sherlock so he could brush his fingers through his curls as he passed, ducking his head to inhale the summer-green scent of his shampoo. "What are you thinking about, sitting here all by yourself?"

Sherlock waved one hand in a proud flourish over the breakfast, almost an exact recreation of the menu from their first breakfast together: eggs and sausages, croissants, tea, coffee, a bowl of plump berries.

The tightening at the corner of John's mouth was almost like a smile. "Everything on the menu?"

"Well," Sherlock shrugged, smiling up at him proudly. "I thought—"

"Last day. Make the most of it." John interrupted with a nod, taking the seat opposite Sherlock. He plucked a croissant from the nearest platter, picked at the end of it, and then dropped it untasted on the empty plate next to him. "Don't we need to go see Lestrade? Give our statements?"

Sherlock's pleased expression faded a bit. He looked doubtfully, puzzled by John's lack of interest, at the large platter of food in the centre of the table. "There's no hurry. It's just _Lestrade_. And I thought, afterward—" Sherlock hooked his index finger around the gold-rimmed bowl of blackberries and pulled it toward him. He poked at one of the dark little berries with the one finger, worrying it back and forth in its dish. "I thought I might take the rest of the day off." He looked up again, checking John's reaction hopefully.

"Off? How do you mean _off_?"

"From the case."

"I thought you'd be all over this Richard Brook business today. You know, without distractions. And you'll want to pack your bags for…wherever it is you're going. Home."

Sherlock frowned down at the berry dish once again, twitching John's remarks away with a flick of his head, like he was shooing away an insect. "I thought we might go to the park."

"The park? What for?"

Sherlock's volume and speed of speech increased, as though he might pave over John's interjected question with additional words. "Regent's Park, perhaps. Or…or Kensington Gardens, if you'd prefer, although the tourists' onslaught will be atrocious on such a clear day. Walk. Um. Bring a lunch. Cheese or…fruit. Some wine. What else do people do? Books? Reading aloud. _Like to the lark at break of day arising_ , that sort of thing?" Sherlock paused with an expression of surprise. "I didn't realize I had kept any poetry. Anyway, the fountains are _lovely_ and…John, why are you looking at me like that?"

"That sounds a lot like a date. Or…a date in terrible film, anyway."

"Not a _date_. Not…as such." Sherlock furrowed his brow in evident consternation, ticking the tip of a fingernail against the rim of the porcelain berry dish. "There is…a matter I wish to discuss with you. I thought an open and…neutral environment might be more conducive to that conversation."

" _Neutral_ environment. What sort of matter is this?"

"A business matter."

"What sort of business?" Transported by Sherlock's phrasing back to the morning of Gabriel March's request for his _services_ , John was suddenly aware of the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He folded his arms over his chest as if he might quiet the noise and spoke very softly, carefully, recalling his next lines from that conversation as if they were the next phrase in a magic spell. "Do you need a doctor?"

"You don't want to…visit the park?"

"Sherlock. Sod the bloody _park_. Just tell me what you want," John said tightly, his jaw clenched, his heart hammering with hope. "Please."

"Yes. All right." Sherlock seemed to chew over his next words, mouth opening and closing. Finally, his chest expanded with a deeply-indrawn breath. "John, I would like to see you again. After today, that is. Obviously. On…an ongoing basis."

John felt warmth rush through his chest, his limbs. "You would?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes brightened with encouragement at whatever he read in John's expression. "Yes, I would. Very much."

"What did you have in mind?" He balled his fists, hugging himself a little tighter in anticipation.

Sherlock pushed his berry bowl away and straightened his spine. He clasped his hands together on top of the table, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward with an earnest look. "I need an assistant."

These _were_ the lines from the spell, weren't they? The script that had drawn them into their first arrangement, now re-applied to a new beginning. John puffed out a giddy breath of laughter. "Well…I _can_ type."

"Then…you would consider the position? I would, of course, continue to compensate you at a…meaningful rate." Sherlock's posture relaxed and he put a hand on his laptop, continuing eagerly, "I've been browsing flats on the Internet all morning. I could settle you in one near my own. Along with your sister, of course, if that's a concern. It would be most convenient for you to be close by. My hours to tend to be irregular, but I _would_ hope that you made yourself available on short notice for case work."

John blinked at him. As quickly as it had risen into his throat, his heart plummeted. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm _serious_."

"You actually want an _assistant_."

"I know. Yes." Sherlock nodded quickly, holding out a hand palm-down as if to reassure him. "It's a big step. I've always worked alone. But your presence this week has proven…illuminating…in a number of ways. Can one return to darkness after seeing light? Of course, in the immediate future I will be focussed on the Richard Brook case, but it would grant you the time to settle in new accommodations. There's a flat you might find comfortable in—"

John squeezed his eyes closed. "No."

Across the table, there was a silent space where Sherlock sat for a moment before he repeated, as though he hadn't heard quite correctly, "No?"

"No." John opened his eyes and forced himself to look squarely at Sherlock. His cheeks were just a little pink, the same colour they turned after he was kissed. His face was crinkled in that incredulously betrayed look he got when something hadn't gone exactly his way. _Of course_ John wanted to see him again. Again and again. He wanted it so badly. Emotionally and physically raw, laid open atop Sherlock's body, he had _begged_ for it. _Did you hear me? Is this your answer? A flat nearby and a part-time job? You would break my heart so slowly. I'm a doctor—I know a clean break is best._ "I’m not interested."

"But, John, it makes sense. Don't you see? Resolves your financial difficulties. Easily. Employment you clearly enjoy, are _suited_ for, a man like you. And…we work well together." Sherlock blinked and his voice went small. "Don't we? We are…good together."

"It is a good offer, Sherlock," John smiled wryly, gently, "for a man like me. But I’m not interested." An odd calmness had come over him. He wasn't angry, which was usually his first response to pain. And he wasn't numb, which was usually his next response. He _was_ hurt, and he was sure he would feel it for a long time, but he still felt his own strength. If he walked away from his time with Sherlock with nothing else, he had found his sense of worth again.

Sherlock frowned at the table for several long moments before he looked at John again. "Is this about…the sex? John, if you don't really find me…if you don't want…that's not a _term_ of…" He paused, muttering a curse under his breath, and pressed his lips into a white line. "I don't _need_ it. John, I…I _like_ you." He stared at John intently.

"You like me. Well, thanks. I like you, too, Sherlock. But," John licked his lips and huffed a sad little laugh, "that's not always enough, is it?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze. "Is there nothing I can offer you, then?"

John sighed and looked down at his lap. "Offer me? No." He shrugged. "I want more."

"I don't understand. More than I can offer you?"

"It's all right, Sherlock," John smiled at him and scooted his chair closer so he could place his hand over Sherlock's. "Listen. I've had…a wonderful time. With you. I owe you so much."

"I don't understand. You…saved my life. What could _you_ owe _me_?"

John just shook his head and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Thank you, Sherlock. For everything."

Sherlock jerked his arm away with a strangled sound of frustration. "John, I don't want your _gratitude_. I want—" His mouth snapped shut. He stared at John.

He was still staring when his mobile began to ring from inside the pocket of his suit jacket. As Sherlock was still staring, apparently disinclined to move, John reached inside his jacket and pulled the phone out. "Lestrade," he said after a quick glance at the screen. He pressed the call answer key.

"It's John…yes, we're coming…yes, _now_."

He ended the call and dropped the phone on the table. Sherlock's eyes tracked his movements, but he remained silent, lost in whatever thought had overtaken him. John leaned in and kissed his forehead. He tried not to linger. His hands twitched with the effort it took not to slide them into Sherlock's hair. "I'm having a quick shower and then we can go, all right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "All right."

 

+++

 

Giving their statements at New Scotland Yard chipped away at John's carefully cultivated composure until he felt ready to crack open completely. In recalling the events at the opera house, he was dragged forcibly through every emotional state he had visited that night—determination, hope, relief, terror, invigoration, pride. Those memories were beautiful clothes that didn't fit him anymore; it was time to take them off and put his old kit back on.

Sherlock had maintained an uncharacteristically low-key and impassive demeanour, providing the bulk of the answers to Lestrade's questions whilst giving John fairly frequent and over-long speculative looks that seemed unrelated to his narrative. The stares didn't help John's mounting agitation. He felt far too exposed, struggling to keep his voice steady and his expression unreadable when it was his turn to speak.

It wasn't until Lestrade and Sherlock moved on to the topic of next steps in their investigation of Richard Brook that Sherlock's eyes lit again. As the pair of detectives grew more animated in their discussion, John's hand started to shake. Impatience, he told himself, because their plans were _nothing to do with him_.

He rose abruptly from his chair in the middle of whatever Lestrade was talking about and announced in Sherlock's direction, far too loudly, "I'll see you at the hotel."

Sherlock and Lestrade both stared at him open-mouthed, looking like John had hit _pause_ at an awkward moment in a video of their conversation.

John cleared his throat and tried to downplay his discomfort. "I…it's just I see you two have things to discuss and I need to…speak with Harry and pack my things. So." He twitched his head toward the door. "I'll just. Go. Then. Shall I?"

"John…" Sherlock leaned forward, moving a hand to the arm of his chair as if to stand.

John raised a hand to halt him. "No, you finish up. I'll see you back at the hotel." He nodded tightly at Lestrade, whose mouth had still not closed, and pushed the office door open. He walked toward the lifts with a measured, controlled stride. Very well controlled, he thought.

 

+++

 

Sherlock and Lestrade blinked at one another in the heavy silence following John's abrupt departure. When they finally spoke again, it was simultaneously.

"Should I go after—"

"Pack his things?"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and hooked his thumb in the direction of his office door. "What was _that_ about, Sherlock?"

"What was _what_ about?" Sherlock sniffed, trying to look like he had noticed nothing amiss.

Lestrade folded his arms over his chest, maintaining his expectant expression. No…elevating it, with a meaningful lowering of his head so that his gaze became a reproving glare.

He should like to see DI Lestrade conduct an interrogation at some point. Sherlock sighed heavily in acceptance of the fact that he _would_ talk. He found that he wanted to, but he couldn't appear too eager, so he scowled his next words out.  " _John_ is packing his things, as am _I_ , because we are leaving the hotel today."

"All right. And where are you going?"

"Back to my flat, of course." Sherlock looked out the window behind Lestrade's desk. "As I explained last night to John, there is no need to remain in residence there, since Gabriel March is no longer in business after his associate's unfortunate demise."

Lestrade lifted his chin and stretched his legs out, crossing them casually at the ankles. He leaned back in his chair, watching Sherlock with that annoying, lazy-lidded, open-mouthed expression that meant he was now trying to _think_. "And John?"

"No."

"I see," Lestrade grunted. "Going your separate ways, then."

"Apparently," Sherlock said with a casual shrug, only to fall into a scowl again when Lestrade maintained his assessing look. " _What_?"

"Well, I just thought you were…you know… _together_."

"You're taking a far too romanticized view of a…a…casual…working…of a short-term…" Sherlock frowned severely narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "Oh, of _course_. Cologne. New razor. Pressed shirt. You have a _date_ tonight. A _special_ one, judging by the shine on your cheap shoes. Of course you're _romanticizing_."

"Yeah, nice try changing the subject," Lestrade said calmly, giving Sherlock a baleful look at his admittedly weak diversionary tactic, although he did send a brief, disconsolate glance toward his shoes. "Did you ask him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. "Why are you even talking to me about this? You're not my _honorary_ brother now, you know. As though _he and I_ would ever have had this conversation—"

"Sherlock. Did you _ask_ John?"

"Of course I _asked_ him," Sherlock snarled, drawing his legs up and planting his feet on the seat of his chair. He wrapped his arms around his shins and stared at his knees and stared at Lestrade's shoes as well. "He said _no_."

Lestrade stared thoughtfully at the door. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm _sure_. I was _there_ and my powers of observation are in fact quite keen."

"Did you ask the right question?"

"I don't know what that means. _God_! Why do I understand _no one_ today?" With a roar of frustration, he kicked his legs off the chair and lashed out blindly with one arm. Lestrade's desk phone clattered to the floor. Sherlock turned and glared at it for being in his way.

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mr Powers of Observation," Lestrade said, rising calmly to replace the phone. "Here's what I think: John wants to be with you, but you've cocked it up."

Sherlock sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut, slumping in defeat in the wake of his small, ineffectual tantrum. "This…isn't really my area."

"You don't say."

John had _thanked_ him, but Sherlock didn't want John's _gratitude_.

Sherlock swallowed hard, feeling suddenly breathless. "I think I may…in fact…be…an idiot."

"Yeah, your brother mentioned that," Lestrade said. "Once or twice."

Memories of John from last night. Smiling, laughing, flirting. _Gratitude_. It had all changed when Sherlock said _gratitude_.

_Don't let me go._

God, he _was_ an idiot. He was the biggest idiot in all of London. Stupid. _Stupid_. He had _seen_ , but he hadn't _observed_.

"Listen, Sherlock. You did _good_ on this case. And…well…" He cleared his throat. "I don't know how to say it without sounding condescending, but…I'm proud of you. You may be an idiot, but you're a good man. John thinks so, too. Now, do you want him?"

He wanted John by his side on the street, on a case. His body in the night, his warm feet under the covers. The glint of steel in his eyes, the safe strength in his hands. The way he bit his lip and hummed while he tried to type and the face he made after his first sip of tea in the morning. The little grunting sound he made when he sat down. His striped underwear. Sherlock wanted _all_ of it. "Yes," he managed to whisper.

"Then go ask him again. Just…get it right this time."

Was that what John wanted from him in return? _Don't let me go._ Sherlock stood slowly and wrapped his scarf around his neck. _Please, don't let me go._ "The case…" he mumbled as his slid into his coat.

"It'll keep."

Sherlock paused in the doorway with a shell-shocked look. "Lestrade…"

Lestrade snorted a kind laugh. "We're not going to…hug or anything, are we?"

"No." Horror broke through Sherlock's daze. "God, no!"

"Good, because…I just pressed this shirt this morning."

Sherlock chuckled, a release of tension, and glanced down at Lestrade's shiny shoes. "Say hello to Molly for me," he smiled.

"I might do. _If_ I see her." Lestrade stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocked once on his heels, and nodded toward the door, grinning smugly. "Off you go, then."

 

+++

 

John took the Tube back to the hotel, his joy in walking without his cane diminished by his looming goodbye to Sherlock. Burrowing underground felt more or less appropriate at the moment, but he had to face the belligerently bright and cheerful day again when he emerged from the Embankment station. Sunlight was glinting off the surface of the Thames and the mingled scents of brine and drying leaves were sharp in his nose as he breathed in the cool air.

Walking the remainder of the distance to the Rivers, he pulled out his mobile and dialled Harry. He'd invoked her name as an excuse to leave, but now that he had he found he wanted to hear a familiar voice. It was probably a good idea to forewarn her he'd be home tonight, anyway, in case she needed to tidy up. Or sober up. He wasn't sure she'd pick up--it was a hit or miss game, phoning Harry. She might just as easily be asleep on his sofa as out dancing at a club that didn't care what time of day it was, but she actually answered his call.

"Hi, Harry. All right?"

"'Course I'm all right," Harry grumbled on the on the other end of the line. Her voice was rough but not terribly slurred. A good sign. She was in a quiet environment, so probably…sofa. "What's up? _You_ all right?"

"Yeah, fine. I just wanted to give you a bit of warning."

"Oh, God, what?"

"That I'll be back home tonight. So you can reverse whatever desecration you've wrought on the flat in my absence."

"Pfft. The flat's fine. _Pristine_."

John heard a grunt of movement and the crumpling of what sounded like a crisps wrapper and smiled.

"So this big job's all over?" Harry asked.

"Yeah." John frowned as he neared a tree next to the Victoria Gardens that looked like the one he had kissed Sherlock beneath last night, and jogged across the street to avoid it.  "It's all over."

"That was quick, wasn't it? Or…what's today?"

John sighed. "Yeah, speaking of that…well, we can talk more when I get home, but…remember the Emerson Centre?"

There was a long silence before Harry replied. "The rehab clinic?"

"Yeah, well…Harry, I think we can do it now."

There was an even longer silence. "What do you mean?"

A lump rose in John's throat. He wished he could see his sister's face, read how she was feeling, but he knew she'd appreciate the privacy of marshalling her emotions without him watching. "I can get you in. I have the money. If you still want to go."

The silence this time was so prolonged John took the phone from his ear to make sure they were still connected.

"Oh, Johnny." Harry's voice was choked. "How?"

"Never mind that," John grinned, his hand tightening around his mobile. "So you still want in?"

"What did you do?"

_What I had to. What I wanted to. What I wish I could keep doing._ But _this_ was why he'd done it in the first place. This helped. Yeah. This really helped. He was glad he'd phoned. "Just…I thought you might want to be thinking about it. You know?"

There was a sequence of loud, wet snuffling sounds on the other end of the line. "Arsehole," Harry finally said. "I just put on my make-up."

"Like it really helps."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too," John chuckled. "And don't call me Johnny."

Although the call had lifted his spirits a bit, they threatened to sink again when John opened their suite door for what he supposed was the last time. He slipped out of his jacket as he entered. The dining table had been cleared, the room tidied, and the terrace curtains drawn against the bright sun. A trace of a sweet, smoky scent hung in the quiet room.

John paused, frowning. The small hairs on his forearms prickled.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called out, walking toward the bedroom. "Sherlock, are you back already?"

A soft breath of air touched the back of his neck, and John spun around. He almost moved quickly enough to dodge the swinging blow to his head.

Almost.

 


	15. Chapter 15

John blinked, groaned. The light was too bright. The desert. He was out in the open, exposed. It was too quiet. He tried to lean forward, get to cover, but his hands were stuck in the sand behind him.

"Ah, there you are," said a gentle voice, hovering just over his left shoulder.

He blinked again, harder. The room around him swam into a blurry view. Deep breath. Focus. Breathe and focus. Their sitting room. Still in the hotel. In a chair. Hands bound. Legs bound. Pain squeezed his head and pulled at his shoulder. But still breathing. _Sherlock_. Where was Sherlock? John jerked against his restraints, craning his neck to get a look around the rest of the room.

"No, no, don't get up," the voice—a man's voice, deep but soft, like a caress wrapped in a whine—admonished, pressing a restraining hand to his shoulder. "There's no need for formalities. We're going to be friends, you and I. For now. Whilst we wait." The man stepped from behind John's chair and crossed the room slowly with his back to John, letting his fingers drift possessively along the back of the burgundy chair, around the edge of a lampshade, along the arm of the sofa. Dark hair. Slim-fitting navy suit. When he reached the doors to the terrace, he turned to face John with a quick, coy smile. "Aren't we, Dr Watson?"

"Brook," John breathed in recognition.

Richard Brook grinned and waggled his fingers at John. "Hi!" he said brightly.

"Whilst we wait for what?" John asked, cringing as another spiral of pain scraped along the side of his head, pulsing once behind his eye. Bad, but not as bad as the first. Not a severe blow. His skin felt drawn around the area of impact at the edge of his temple, but he did not seem to be bleeding. Apart from what was likely a mild concussion, he appeared to be uninjured. He twisted his wrists against their bindings. Soft. Fabric. But secure. How long had he been out? Where the hell was Sherlock?

"Where is he?" Brook asked as though he'd plucked the thought from John's head.

_Not here._ John didn't blink, didn't sigh out his relief. Sherlock wasn't here, wasn't lying in a pool of blood somewhere just out of John's peripheral vision, wasn't bound and gagged and struggling. "Where is who?"

Brook chuckled. "You're a bit groggy and you _must_ have a headache, so I'll forgive that one. But just that one, Dr Watson. _Where is he_?"

John's jaw tightened. "I don't know."

"Better. Possibly even true." Brook nodded and tilted his head, leaning in to examine John's face more closely. In closer proximity, John could smell the same scent he'd noticed just before he'd been struck—sweet and earthy, like an expensive cigar. And his eyes—John wondered how he had ever thought of them as _soulful_. They were bored, hollow, and utterly _soulless_. "And when—"

"And I don't know when he'll be home," John interrupted tersely, shivering in spite of himself.

"You sound just resentful enough of not being quite certain. Yes, I believe you," Brook said with a hint of surprise. The corners of his sleepy eyes crinkled when he smiled. He straightened and let his dark gaze crawl across the suite. John felt the violation of his and Sherlock's private space as keenly as if his own body were being stripped and inspected. " _Home_ , is it?"

John frowned at the mocking glint in Brook's eye.

"Well!" Brook straightened and clapped his hands together. "How shall we pass the time, then?"

A chill shivered down John's spine at the undercurrent of threat in Brook's exaggeratedly cheerful tone. _Calm._ "I'm not bad at conkers," he offered with a smirk.

"Ah, Philip said you were _funny_." Brook's mouth twisted. "My poor Philip."

John swallowed and said nothing. _Stay calm_.

Brook glanced across the room at the small bar in the dining area and his expression slid back into a benign smile. "Mind if I have a drink?"

"Help yourself," John said drily. He licked his lips, realizing his mouth actually was quite literally dry. As Brook walked away from him, he strained as hard as he could against his wrist bindings, twisting and pulling, at the cost of another slice of pain through his head. The fabric was tightly and expertly knotted. His finger grazed what felt like a button. One of Sherlock's shirts, based on the feel of the fabric, he realized with an almost appreciative grimace. _Sherlock_. John closed his eyes. Sherlock might be home… _back_ any time now, and Richard Brook could have nothing pleasant in mind for that encounter.

"If you're thinking of calling out, by the way, I wouldn't." Brook sniffed at a bottle of whisky, wrinkling his nose. "After all, who do you think would come? That sweet lady who tends your rooms?"

"You will _not_ _touch_ her."

"Not if you don't call out," Brook said pleasantly, pouring himself a modest two fingers of the single malt. Drink in hand, he frowned his disapproval at a wooden dining chair, twin to the one John was bound to, and moved to the more comfortable upholstered wingback. Before he sat, he reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a satin-nickel .32 Beretta, and placed the pistol casually on the nearby end table. Scooting his chair around to face John, Brook took his seat and eased back, crossing his legs casually. "No one else is invited to our little get-together. Just the three of us. I’m a bit shy, I don't like crowds. Now, I ask again…how shall we pass the time?"

"What do you want from us?" John asked, trying out a straightforward question.

Brook smiled at him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. "From _you_ , my dear Dr Watson, absolutely nothing."

The cold line of fear was spreading outward from John's spine now, but his anger was rising just as quickly to melt it. "And from…Gabriel? What? Revenge?"

"Oh!" Brook sat forward suddenly, brightening. "The way you're tied, the light on your face just now, that shine of desperation in your eyes…we should send him your picture! Like the one I sent little Molly. Only," he set his drink aside and rubbed a hand over his smooth-shaven chin, pouting, "I don't have my make-up kit. I'd have to improvise quite a bit. Oh, don't look like that, John. May I call you John? I'm not going to _beat you up_. I'm an _artist_ , not a common thug."

"So you're going to shoot me."

Brook rolled his eyes. "Don't be so _obvious_ , John. Shooting you? Revenge? Really, how _boring_. I do hope Gabriel—are we still calling him that?—turns up soon. _You_ don't play right at all. In fact, let's see," Brook leaned sideways in his seat to reach into the interior pocket of his suit jacket, "if we can encourage his return."

John felt his lips curling in a snarl as Brook held out his hand and showed him his own mobile, with its wholesomely domestic teacup background screen.

Brook began pressing buttons on the phone, ignoring John's glare with an expression of devilish anticipation. He paused, reading the screen, and his eyebrows flew up. "Interesting! I see…a new phone for Dr Watson, a new suit for Dr Watson. Aren't we being _pampered_? What have you done, Doctor, to earn such—oh!" He looked up at John with a dark smile. "I see what you've done. You are rather photogenic, aren't you? And what a keen fashion sense you have. Gabriel appreciates it too, I see."

John glared at him, nausea roiling in his stomach at the thought of those murky eyes sliding across his innocent flirtations with Sherlock.

"I have some ideas now. Let's send him a text," Brook grinned gleefully, and started typing. "We'll start with something simple…"

 

+++

 
    
    
    Where are you? -J
    

In the back of his taxi, Sherlock fumbled at his phone in a rush to reply to the text, fearful that John might have finished his packing already. He'd delayed his return to John with one more stop before he left Scotland Yard to acquire a little gift that, if he was right, John would find far more romantic than any of Sherlock's insipid attempts last night at more traditional gestures. He patted at the weight in his pocket with one hand as he texted with the other.
    
    
    Almost there. Don't leave.
    SH
    
    
    
    
    Why not? -J
    

He'd never done anything like this before, this thing he wanted to do. These things he wanted to say to John. He'd never thought it was an option, not for him. Even now his hope felt mercurial, dancing and teasing just at the edges of his vision. He would not let it get away.
    
    
    Please, John. Don't leave yet.
    SH
    
    
    
    
    I'm not going anywhere. –J
    

Sherlock sighed a breath of relief and smiled idiotically at his phone. He glanced out the window at the far-too-slow slide of passing buildings, leaning forward as if the incline of his body could urge the taxi on faster back to John. Wanting to maintain their connection, pull himself along it, he texted again.
    
    
    I have a question to ask you, John.
    SH
    
    The right one this time, I hope.
    SH
    

He clutched the phone and waited.
    
    
    Don't keep me in suspense. Ask it now. -J
    
    
    
    
    No. I need to see you.
    SH
    

The taxi turned a corner, left off the Victoria Embankment toward the Rivers Hotel. Close now. Sherlock's foot tapped anxiously on the thinly-carpeted floor of the cab.
    
    
    See me? –J
    (photo attachment)

A close, tight shot, slightly blurry and cast in a bright golden light. Angled up to catch John's exposed throat and the curve of his jaw.
    
    
    I'm waiting, but not patiently. –J
    
    I hope it's a question I can answer with a yes. -J
    
    Hurry. -J
    

Oh, God.  John understood already. Did he understand? Would he give him another chance to get it right? It looked like the answer was yes. John. Warm-in-his-arms John. His lover John. His John. John he never deserved. John he never thought possible. Not a joke, not a trick, John who wanted him. Sherlock had always been about the work, but John _fit_ that. John fit him, John would fit into his life perfectly. Wouldn't he? He already fit into so many spaces where Sherlock had never even noticed an emptiness.

Paying the cabbie, crossing the Rivers' foyer, and riding the lift passed in a blur of anticipation. There was a door hanger on the outside of the door to their suite.

DO NOT DISTURB.

This was it. Sherlock adjusted his scarf and fluffed his fingers through his curls, hoping for the tousled look John seemed to like. John liked his hair. Sherlock bit his lower lip as he made a soft sound of buoyant expectation high in his throat. John liked _him_ and John was waiting inside. He opened the door with an irrepressible, ridiculous grin he felt all the way to his toes.

"At last! Do come in," Richard Brook said graciously.

The smile slid from Sherlock's face and a shard of ice plunged into his stomach. John. Tied. Tied to a chair. Breakfast chair. Sherlock ordered him bright red berries for breakfast. A dark red seam of coagulated blood on his temple. Eyes huge. Pained but alert. Behind him, Richard Brook. Gun. Gun pointed at John. John's head. John's soft, golden, citrus-shampooed head that would blow apart like a blood orange dropped off the London Coliseum roof.

Sherlock's eyes locked with John's. _All right? All right?_

John's eyelids shivered and he nodded, once, almost imperceptibly. _All right_.

"Nice place," Brook said, gesturing insolently around the room with his gun.

Deliberately, as he closed the door behind him, Sherlock relaxed his expression and his body while inside it a terrified beast snapped at the bars of its cage. He lifted his chin and fixed Richard Brook with a haughty stare, shrugging his indifference. He matched his tone to Brook's casual sing-song. "Thank you. It's home."

"There's that word again. _Home_. But it's not really, is it? However much you might like to play house." Brook smiled indulgently at the back of John's head. "Oh, I understand. They can be fun for a while—ordinary people. You took mine, though. Maybe if I took _yours_ , I wouldn't feel so very bad about losing _mine_. "

" _You're_ the one who shot him," John growled.

"Shh, John, the grown-ups are talking now," Brook scolded.

"He has a point," Sherlock said, drawing Brook's attention back to himself.

"Of course I killed him. He was growing a little too…attached. _Needy_. They do that sometimes, don't they?" Brook glanced down at John and gave Sherlock a knowing look, then laughed suddenly and shrugged. "Oh well, I can get another one."

"And you think I can't?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Can you?" Brook's voice went soft, like the slide of a satin sheet, and he rested his hand on the side of John's face. John tensed, but remained still under the touch.

When Brook pulled John's phone from his pocket, Sherlock's upper lip curled into a sneer. Before he could smooth it away, though, Brook had already seen and smiled triumphantly at the slip.

"Sorry about our little game. The first of many, I hope," Brook's voice danced. "What did you want to ask us? Oh, come on. It was getting really touching. I want to see how it ends."

"It ends with you in a box," Sherlock said, pulling John's gun from his pocket and aiming it at Brook's head.

Brook winced. "Well, that seems rather _dramatic_. Although I suppose I did start it." Putting on a sympathetic pout, Brook gestured delicately toward John's bound hands. " _This_ was rather dramatic, too, but I did need to subdue him. He likes to play the hero, doesn't he?"

John's expression had turned bitter, but he was alert, watching Sherlock for cues. He would recognize his own gun, liberated from the evidence room at Scotland Yard, and he would recognize just as easily that Sherlock must be bluffing.

"As, apparently, do you," Brook chuckled. He leaned down to John's ear, moving the barrel of his pistol in John's line of sight, and spoke in a stage whisper, "Tell him _mine_ is loaded, though."

When John stayed silent, Brook pressed the gun against the wound on the side of his head and said more harshly, "I said _tell him_."

"His is loaded," John intoned blandly, and if Sherlock had doubted the fact—which he did not—John's grim expression confirmed it. And so much for that bluff.

"Really, though, I don't want this to be so unpleasant. Philip is the one who enjoyed causing pain, not me. I just came to talk. I suppose I did start us off on the wrong foot, calling on you uninvited. Rude, I know, but I was so anxious to meet you in person." He blinked, heavy-lidded, at Sherlock. "Face to face. Get to know each other."

Sherlock blinked back, mirroring Brook's expression. He crossed the room casually, tossing John's gun onto the sofa as he seated himself in the wingback chair that had been turned to face John's chair. He crossed his legs casually and leaned back. He would not win this game with force—at least not at this juncture. He smiled. "All right. In that case, I'd like to know why you killed Spencer _now_? Why don't you need those plans from Morse after all?"

"The _plans_ ," Brook scoffed. "I can get that sort of thing any time. It was never about the plans. It was about the game. Poor Philip didn't realize that particular game was over."

"Why was it over?"

"Because of you," Brook sighed. "You were too close. You spoiled it. But I'm not angry. To be honest, that game was growing old anyway, and I've plenty of other games."

Sherlock frowned. "Not just the corporate thefts. The blackmail. The murders."

Brook chuckled. "The murders were all Philip's. His reward. I indulged him too much. The information, the money, they were useful, of course, but that wasn't the fun of it. You understand, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. Broker an exchange of high-risk corporate information, blackmail or murder the participants, skip away with both the information and the cash. Repeat the formula until bored. "It was too easy."

"You do understand," Brook smiled softly, but his black gaze was so intense Sherlock felt it was almost physically drawing him in. "I thought you would. And you'll understand when I say I'll be looking for a new game."

"Yes."

"And when I find it, you'll stay out of my way."

"Will I?" Sherlock taunted.

"Yes. You will." Brook nodded slowly, his expression sombre. He let his eyes drift over John's body, settling on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, where the red mark Sherlock had made there was visible just inside the gap of his collar. "Because I know where you live now…Sherlock Holmes." Behind John's back, Brook held up his mobile again and smiled. The photo he'd sent of John was on the screen.

The icy darkness in Brook's eyes left Sherlock in no doubt of the sincerity of his threat. "Not for long," he said with a shrug. One more bluff.

"Even so…I can always find you." Brook's smile widened. "I'll see myself out."

 

+++

 

Sherlock was sliding onto his knees next to John's chair almost before the latch on the door finished closing. "All right?"

"Sorry, Sherlock," John's muttered apology— _for what?_ —was delivered in a clenched voice.

"Are you _all right_?" Sherlock repeated more distinctly, tugging loose the shirt sleeves that bound him to the chair. Gabriel March's shirts. He was going to _burn_ them.

"I let him surprise me," John said, shaking his head. He winced, and as soon as Sherlock had freed one hand, lifted it so his fingers could probe the red line on the side of his head.

" _John_!" Sherlock demanded.

"I'm _fine_ , yes, for Christ's sake," John snapped.

Sherlock nodded tightly and worked loose the knot around one of John's ankles.

John sighed and rested his free hand on Sherlock's head, pushed his thumb into Sherlock's hair. His voice gentled. "Are _you_ all right?"

Sherlock's fingers halted their worrying against the second ankle knot and wrapped around John's lower leg, squeezing into the muscle of his calf. For a moment he was a boy again, standing on the top of a grown-up's feet—his father's? Mycroft's? It didn't matter—clinging to a strong column of leg as he was walked around the room, laughing and safe and carefree.  He rested his forehead on John's knee and let himself take in one breath. It was not the time to be childish, and it was absolutely not the time to feel safe. "Yes. I'm fine," he said into John's leg, then squeezed his eyes closed. Unable to help himself, he kissed the top of John's thigh and rubbed his face against its reassuring warmth.

"Careful, there." John's fingers stroked through his hair. "I know I’m the one who brought up bondage, but this wasn't _exactly_ what I had in mind."

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes. Big, serious, storm-blue eyes with a glint of lightning in their depths. This was the part where they were supposed to laugh. The corner of John's mouth was starting to quirk up, his limbs beginning to tremble with energy that needed to be expended. This was where their laughter would collide and rumble and they would kiss relief into each other and rock together on their little boat, safe and warm where it didn't matter whether they were adrift on the sea.

Sherlock didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He bent his head to his task again, untying the knotted shirt around John's ankle, and then the one around his other wrist. He gathered the shirts up and flung them across the room, disgusted by their silky touch. He could just as easily have returned to find one of them around John's throat. John, strangled with Sherlock's silk shirt. John, tipped over the balcony. John, bloodied or tortured or flayed or used or discarded like he was _nothing_. Sherlock almost choked on the swell of panic that rose in his throat.

_I know where you live._

Brook did know, and that meant it was time for Sherlock to move out.

"Well! This was a _far_ more exciting send-off than I'd planned," he said to John as they both rose to their feet. He shrugged and made a _but-there-it-is_ motion with his hands, puffing out an awkward breath of insincere laughter. "You should demand a significant hazard pay bonus of me. In fact, I will _insist_ on it."

John had started to rub at his wrists, but he stopped and stared at Sherlock, frowning. "Sherlock, you know I don't want—"

"I _know_ , John," Sherlock interrupted smoothly, fixing a placating smile on his face, "but once again I find myself feeling indebted to you."

"For getting tied to a chair?" John grimaced, a note of self-disgust beneath the words.

"For _that_ ," Sherlock beamed, pointing to the door Brook had exited. "Because _that_ is something _interesting_. Don't you see? _That_ is something _new_. Something to sink my teeth into. Something exciting." He tried to make his eyes glitter. He tried to sparkle with the energy of it—and that energy was there. This _was_ new. This _was_ interesting. If not for the threat to John, Sherlock might be dancing across the room right now in earnest at how bloody _interesting_ Richard Brook was. Instead, he just felt sick. "You were a part of making it happen, John, of getting me to this point. And I'm gr—"

" _Don't_ say it," John flashed a hand at him, shaking his head in dismay as his face crinkled as if in pain. He pointed at the door as well. " _That_ is not fun. _That_ is insane."

"I suppose it is for the best you turned down my offer after all," Sherlock said, and since he had thought of it, he commenced a half-walking, half-dancing circuit of the room. "This is hardly the time to divide my attentions, is it? You probably sensed that, somehow. My John, wise as well as brave!"

"Yeah. That's me." John's shoulders slumped. "Sherlock, he's dangerous. Tell me you see that. "

"I know. Isn't it _wonderful_? You understand these things, and I _will_ miss you, John," Sherlock grinned, dropping a kiss on John's head as he twirled past, "but I _do_ work best alone, and I have a feeling I'm about to do some of my best work. Can you feel it? That _something_ in the air?"

"Sherlock…what the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock blinked innocently. "What do you mean?"

"You're shamming me."

Sherlock gave him a reproving look. "You think know me _that_ well?"

A muscle in the side of John's jaw started to jump. "He said you were going to ask me a question. What was it?"

So John hadn't seen the texts? Sherlock gave him an exaggerated shrug. "John, I don't know—"

"Stop it. You're shamming me. Right now." John raised his chin in challenge, but his eyes were full of doubt. "Just tell me the truth. Call it my _bonus pay_."

Sherlock sighed and let some of the manic glee fade from his face. It was time for another tack, clearly. "All right, yes, that was true. I said I had a question for you."

John swallowed and faced Sherlock with an obvious wariness. "Well?"

"The truth, then. You deserve that, John." Sherlock let his eyes drift away from John's face. "I admit it. I was going to try one more time to persuade you to continue working with me."

"Oh?"

John's expression of mingled hope and wariness made Sherlock's chest ache. He smirked. "John, obviously I enjoy your company. I thought I might…find the right incentive package to tempt you." He stepped in closer and lifted a hand to the side of John's head, letting his fingertips tease the nape of his neck. He lowered and roughened his voice, leaned in and breathed in John's ear. "It wouldn't have been that difficult for me to persuade you. I know what you like."

"Sherlock…" John was very still, his brows drawn tightly together.

"I brought your gun back as a gift," Sherlock said silkily, and pressed his body closer to John's.  He wanted to melt into that warmth, hug, cling, and never let go. And John's hand was rising from his side to Sherlock's waist, as though he couldn't help himself. "A gift for the man who loves danger. The man who likes to play the hero. You see? How easy it is? Even now, you want to _save_ me, and I would let you think you were. I’m a selfish man, John, and I like getting what I want."

"Sherlock. Stop it. Whatever you're doing right now. Just stop it."

"I told you…you deserve the truth, and you deserve a better truth than the one I can offer you." Sherlock sighed, stepping back reluctantly. "I enjoy your company, but that's _all_ I can offer you, and now I have other interests." _Don't let me go._ Sherlock's lips twisted into a sardonic smile, as cold fingers seemed to twist around his heart. "I did hear you last night, John. I know what you want from me, but I _will_ let you go."

John's face had grown pale. He stood like stone for a long time, and Sherlock waited with an unrelentingly dispassionate stare. "All right," John nodded at last. "I’m going."

"I'll leave you to pack in peace," Sherlock smiled, relaxing as if relieved. "I have a lot to do, anyway. Plans to make with our Mr Brook."

"I hope you two will be very happy together," John growled, turning away.

Sherlock's cheerful expression had almost crumpled when John turned back around.

"No, wait," John said, and took a step toward Sherlock. "I didn't mean—I mean…I do want that. Not _him_." He gestured toward the door. "Sod _him_. I don't know what you…I don't understand. What you're doing. Why you're doing this. But I do hope…for you..." He laughed harshly, shook his head, and reached up and pulled Sherlock down for a quick, hard kiss. "Never mind. I'll just get my things. Goodbye, Sherlock."

John walked into their bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock grabbed his coat, his blue scarf, and dragged himself across the room, out the door of the suite, and into the hallway. It felt like the longest distance he had ever traversed. He didn't let his expression falter into pain this time until he was safely in the empty lift, where no one would see.

 

+++

 

John packed quickly enough to be efficient, and slowly enough to prove to himself several times over that the little sounds he thought he heard outside the bedroom door were not Sherlock coming back to tell him that the last day had been a horrible misunderstanding. He'd cleaned up the cut on his temple and somewhat defiantly put on his favourite outfit—the dusky red jumper and the arse-enhancing jeans—and he would wear the navy bomber jacket out, but he left the rest of the clothes Sherlock had bought for him. They weren't really _his_. He ran a hand down the front of his beautiful suit and then shoved it on its hanger into the back of Sherlock's wardrobe. In the end, his travel bag was almost as light as it had been when he arrived. The envelope of cash felt heavier than it really ought to, but he counted the notes out to make certain it was no more than the amount he'd requested for Harry's rehab payment. He only needed to collect his—

"Sir? Hello?" Mrs Hudson's voice called from outside the bedroom door, followed by a soft knock.

He opened the door to Mrs Hudson with one hand on her hip and the other holding out his pistol.

"Mr March said you were checking out," she frowned, and handed him the weapon without a change of expression. He took it, checked it quickly, engaged the safety, and slid it into its designated pocket in his laptop bag.

"I'm glad you're here. I was hoping to see you before I left," he told her. "I wanted to say goodbye."

Mrs Hudson frowned. "I gather you're not accompanying Mr March…onward, after all?"

"No. I'm not." He had to look away from the compassion that filled Mrs Hudson's eyes. "It's back to the real world for me. But that's fine. I live there. You know, most of the time."

"I was so certain—"

John stopped her, squeezing a hand on her small shoulder warmly. "It's complicated, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, John, it's always complicated. That's no reason—"

"It's been a pleasure knowing you."

With a small, frustrated sound, Mrs Hudson ignored his proffered hand and stretched up to hug him. "Idiots," she hissed under her breath as she pulled away, dabbing at her eyes.

"I can't argue with that," John smiled sadly, picked up the cane leaning against the wall, and hooked his bags over his shoulder.

He left the hotel and caught a taxi for home—his real home.


	16. Chapter 16

John let his bags and his cane fall heavily to the floor just inside the door of the flat. He was greeted by a sharp, appreciative whistle.

"Look at you, so posh!" Harry exclaimed, eyeing him incredulously as she stepped around the coffee table on a path for John. "Jesus, I'm afraid to hug you. I might wrinkle you!"

She determinedly hugged him anyway. It was awkward—they weren't the _hugging_ sort of siblings—but he appreciated the effort nevertheless. As he patted her shoulder, John peered around his sister's cropped blonde hair, assessing the state of the flat. Still dingy. Nothing was going to alleviate that condition short of, well, _moving_ , but the room did look as though it had been quite recently tidied. There was no ring of sweets wrappers littered around the sofa or collection of half-empty mugs on the coffee table. Beyond the fresh, floral scent of Harry's clearly recently-used shower gel, John thought he even detected the burnt dust smell their hoover usually produced. Pushing aside the thought of what he might have come home to find had he not called ahead to warn her, John smiled and gave Harry a quick extra squeeze of sincere affection.

"You look well, too," he offered as they disengaged and stepped apart. Harry's simple black trousers and sapphire blue wrap top were practically her version of formal wear.

"Yeah, well, _my_ kit wouldn't pay our entire rent for the—" Harry scrunched her nose and ducked her head to inspect him more closely. "Hang on, what's _that_?" She grabbed his head with both hands and twisted it to one side, staring at the bandage on his temple and prodding it ruthlessly with her thumb.

"Ow!" John slapped her hand away. He'd been trying to keep his head angled so that she wouldn't notice the injury, but it admittedly wasn't a plan designed for long-term effectiveness. "It's nothing. I just…banged it on the door of a taxi. Opened the door too quickly, whilst I was leaning over. One of those things. Stupid. Not paying attention."

"Isn't that usually my line?" Harry snorted, raising her eyebrows expressively. "Your attention must have been on _something_ interesting, then. Or…someone?" Her teasing grin faded as she watched him for a reaction. "You sure you're all right, Johnny?"

"I'm fine." John turned away from sister, his burst of warmth at seeing her again shifting quickly back into a general feeling of weariness and discontent. _He_ was supposed to be the solicitous one, and he was _fine_.

She pinched at the thick suede of his jacket, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. "Well, apart from the head wound, you clean up good."

"You see me in jeans and a jumper practically every day," he shrugged off the compliment as he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carefully over the back of the high-backed wooden "coat chair" they kept by the door.

"Not like _those_ ," Harry said archly. "What's it for, then? Impress the rich guv?"

_More or less, yeah_. _And look at me_. Harry was nothing if not tenacious when she was on the scent of something to take the piss out of John over, and apparently he reeked of his fascination with Sherlock Holmes. He stomped to the far side of the sitting room and flung himself miserably into their one armchair, a tattered blue plaid-upholstered beast with a squeaky spring in the seat. "Yeah, all right," he conceded, knowing from long brotherly experience it was a better strategy to try to minimize the worth of the information than to obfuscate. "I bought a few things. For the job. And he's not my _boss_."

Harry was staring at him with a dumbfounded expression.

"What? He's _not_ my boss. Especially not now," John said sullenly. "Like I told you on the phone, it's over."

Harry widened her eyes and pointed at the cane he'd discarded by the door.

"Oh." John blinked at her. "That."

" _That_? John," Harry said in an awed voice. "You didn't limp. At all."

"It…" John rubbed his hand over the soft denim on his right thigh. "It got better."

"It got better," Harry repeated slowly. "That just…happens, does it?"

"Sometimes," John said with an assuring _trust-me-I'm-a-doctor_ nod.

Harry, whom he suspected had never believed he was a real doctor anyway, didn't buy it. She came and sat down on the end of the sofa nearest John. She picked up one of the decorative purple cushions and clutched it in her lap, watching him warily as if she couldn't decide which one of them might be suffering a delusion.

"John, what the bloody hell have you been doing this week? Who is this…not-boss of yours?"

"Harry, really…the leg, just be happy about it, okay? It's nothing to do with him. He's…like I said, like I _keep_ saying, it's over."

"You know you don't sound much like you're talking about a job, right?" Harry leaned back and squinted at him far too knowingly. "Is that your decision, that it's over? Or his?"

John folded his arms over his chest, resentful of his inability to conceal…anything. _Damn it._ He tried to maintain some scrap of his dignity, effecting a nonchalant shrug. "Well. He did ask me if I wanted to sort of…stay on. As his assistant. But I said no."

"You said no." Harry peered at him.

"Yeah. Definitely…no."

Harry squinted at him even harder, then rolled her eyes and groaned, "Oh no."

"What?"

"I know that look on your face."

"No, you don't," John protested, then frowned. "What look?"

"That _look-how-NOT-interested-I-am_ look. You're in love with him."

John frowned shocked discouragement. "Harry, please."

"You fell in love with him, didn't you?" she bobbed her head confidently.

"Look, Harry, I'm not that stupid, okay? I'm not in love with him," he denied hotly, knowing his cheeks were now blazing red.

Harry raised an eyebrow and started to grin.

"I just…I like him."

"You like him."

"Liked him."

Harry put her feet up on the coffee table and tapped the toes of her shoes together. "So…you're tarted up, you've had a bang on the head, your leg's miraculously healed, and you're in love. Just your typical week at the office, then."

"I'm not in _love_." And a good thing that was, too, because how badly might his heart be broken right now if he were? A good thing he wasn't _that_ stupid.

"Uh huh."

"Harry?"

"Yep?"

"Shut it. It doesn't matter. It's _over_."

"Hmm," Harry held her palms up in resignation, although she was clearly still considering the idea that John and his new boyfriend were just having a cute little tiff. "All right, if you say so. So…what's next?"

"Emerson," John said, changing the subject definitively and calling back a forced smile that he knew would become real once they began to discuss the rehabilitation program in more depth. His excitement for what he hoped would be a turning point in Harry's life was not something he needed to fake. He knew rehab would be a long road for her, and the clinic was just the first step, but it was a step worth celebrating. "Remember when we visited and you said you'd move in then and there if you could…well…now you can."

Harry pushed one shoulder up and tilted her head toward it, her face growing pinched.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"I just can't believe you got the money." She looked up again, her suddenly tearful blue gaze sliding across the ceiling.

"Harry," John leaned forward, putting his hand on the arm of the sofa next to her in place of actually touching her. She had tucked her arms against her body in a self-protective pose. "Enough about the sodding money, all right?" he said gently. "I'll go to the bank tomorrow morning and deposit it. We could go over to Emerson as early as tomorrow afternoon."

"That soon?" Harry blinked at him.

"Well, I'm not sure when the next program cycle starts, but we can get you registered, find out the details, yeah?"

Harry scrubbed the back of her hand across her face. "Deposit? Don't tell me this bloke paid you in cash? Because that's not suspicious at all." She had turned sarcastic and then suddenly sobered at the implications in her last statement. "Are you sure you're not in some kind of trouble?"

"Harry," John sighed, "it's fine. Stop worrying about _me_. I'm _fine_ and I'm…I'm just so happy we can do this. Yeah?"

"Yeah. All right." Harry leaned forward and gave John's sore shoulder a hard shove. "It's _real_ now, isn't it?"

It hurt, and it made his head throb, but he was happy for the shove all the same, pride swelling in his chest that he was going to make this happen for her. "Yeah, it's real." He kicked her leg in return and they both slouched back into their chairs with shy grins.

"Any chance you'll…make it up soon with this bloke, or…whatever?" Harry asked tentatively.

John didn't want her smile to fade, so he smiled back hopefully. "Yeah, maybe," he nodded. "Maybe."

 

+++

 

Sherlock spent the afternoon walking until he found himself in Regent's Park, where he stopped walking and stared numbly at the sparkling waters of a fountain until the sun started to set. He'd meant to bring John here. Like a date. _Not a date_ , Sherlock had protested when John pressed him, but he'd wanted it to be exactly like a date.

He turned and walked back to the hotel, because John would be gone by now.

The suite had been tidied whilst he was out, presumably after John's departure. The chairs that had been moved out of place were back in place. The shirts Sherlock had cast across the room were no longer there. The bed was made in their room. None of John's things were in the bathroom. According to the state of the suite, organized and silent, Brook had never been there earlier that day. Sherlock had John had not eaten breakfast in the dining area. Had not fought. Had not made love in that bed. It was all tidied away.

He supposed it was time to go.

Sherlock began packing his bags methodically but blindly, with little care for his own belongings, until he opened the wardrobe and came to the clothes John had left behind. The sight of them knocked a breath out of his body, a blow of rejection he knew he had no right to feel. He touched the sleeve of the green lamb's wool jumper, the one John had worn to the polo match.

He had done the _right thing_ , sending John away. It would keep him safe. It didn't matter that it made Sherlock feel so _wrong_.

He went to the entry door of the suite and replaced the DO NOT DISTURB hanger on the outer handle. He turned off all the lights in the suite, returned to the bedroom, pulled back the duvet, and crawled in between the sheets with his suit and shoes still on. The sheets had been changed—they didn't smell like John anymore, either. John was gone.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind go completely blank.

 

+++

 

John woke with the collar of his t-shirt still slightly damp with sweat and hazy memories of his first nightmare since he'd met Sherlock Holmes. He'd been running across the desert toward the heat-rippled London skyline, racing a black bird that screamed with laughter as he stumbled over rocks and choked on the sand in this throat. There was poison in the black feathers, and John would never get to London in time.

At least he hadn't woken anyone up, John thought wryly as he rubbed his hands through his hair, brushing out the memories of sleep. The walls of his bedroom were cast in the dim blue-grey light that meant an overcast morning, and the flat was quiet except for the whisper of rain outside.

After exchanging his shirt for an old, green plaid dressing gown, John padded carefully across the sitting room toward the kitchen. He assumed Harry was still asleep, but a quick glance at the empty sofa corrected his assumption. As he entered the kitchen, John had just opened his mouth to call for her when he noticed the conspicuously-placed envelope leaning against the kettle.

The creamy, high-quality stationery envelope from the Rivers bore Harry's name and their address, scribbled in John's hasty handwriting. Formerly fat with cash, the envelope was thin now, and sheet of folded pale yellow stationery peeked out from inside. John unfolded the note and read.
    
    
    Dear John,
    the best brother ever,
    
    I wish I could tell you how grateful I am for this. I know you wanted me 
    to go to the clinic, but all I really need is a fresh start, and that's 
    what this money will do. A change of scene. And it's going to be for me 
    like your leg was for you. It will get better. I'll be back in touch when 
    I'm back on my feet, just like you. You'll be impressed, I promise. You'll 
    be proud of me when you see me again. But I'm guessing for now you'll be 
    glad to have me out of your hair. So you can ring up that rich not-boss 
    of yours. He must "like" you, too, if he offered you more work, yeah? 
    You'll work it out, I know it. I think we're both going to do all right 
    from here on.
    
    Love, Harry

John read through one more time and then simply stood and stared for a long time over the top of Harry's letter at the cheery white and yellow-flowered tiles on the kitchen wall. His eyes were unfocussed and he couldn't find any thoughts beyond noticing how the colour of the tiles matched the colour of Harry's writing paper. Such a happy, hopeful colour. With a numbed heart and indifferent hands, he set the note aside on the worktop, moved the thin envelope on top of it, and filled the kettle.

 

+++

 

Sherlock woke to the sound of persistent knocking at the door of the suite.

"Go away," he shouted.

He reached down under the covers and pulled his shoes off, then pulled the duvet over his head completely.

 

+++

 

John lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, watching the faint shadow of the overhead light fixture stretch toward the crack near the corner of the room. His mug of tea had cooled beside him long ago, untouched.

 

+++

 

Sherlock tried staring at the sitting room ceiling for a while. Then he closed his eyes and stared at the insides of his eyelids. He listened to the rush of silence until he was able to pick out the separate sounds of the pulse in his ears, the low hum of the suite's heating system, and the murmur of traffic from the street fourteen storeys below. Then he turned over and put his face in one of the sofa cushions and listened to the sound of his muffled breathing. His bare feet hung over the arm on the other end of the sofa. They were cold, but it didn't matter.

The knocking on the door had gone away earlier that morning, but now it was back. Maybe it was Richard Brook, come to kill him. Or— _stupid!-_ -maybe it was—

"John?" Sherlock bolted upright, arms tangled in his dressing gown.

The door clicked open and closed again. "It's Mrs Hudson, sir."

"Oh." Sherlock fell back into a gangly sprawl on the sofa, squinting when Mrs Hudson flicked the switch in the entryway and light struck his face. He hadn't realized he'd been sitting in near-darkness. That didn't matter, either. "Have _you_ come to kill me?"

"I'm not quite certain yet, sir," Mrs Hudson said with an edge to her usually warm voice. She placed his DO NOT DISTURB card on the entryway table.

"Then go away." Sherlock flung himself around so he was lying down again, facing the back of the sofa, knees tucked up close to his body.

"I thought you were leaving The Rivers last night, sir," Mrs Hudson persisted.

Sherlock dragged the throw cushion over his head to muffle the intrusive voice.

"So you've made it as far as the sofa."

"Don't you have…pillows to…fluff?" Sherlock muttered disconsolately.

"As a matter of fact, sir, I don't. I've just come to collect the lunch tray you didn't touch."

Sherlock rolled over and frowned across the room at the silver trolley in the dining area. It bore a covered platter, pitcher of water, and the Rivers' distinctive silver and porcelain tea service. "I didn't hear you come in," he mumbled.

"Mr March, are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

"Nothing I need."

Mrs Hudson laced her fingers together and rested her hands in front of her simple grey skirt. "What is it you need?" she asked kindly.

_John. A syringe. My brother. A shower. John. Mostly John._

Sherlock sighed. "A new flat, apparently." Brook's taunt about knowing where Sherlock lived may have been figurative, but it would not be unwise to take it literally as well, even though Brook would likely be able to locate him in a new residence easily enough if he wanted. What it came down to was that Sherlock did not want to return to his former home. Someone else had lived there—someone who had not lost a brother, someone who had never met John Watson. Someone who thought all he might need was a syringe or a shower or a case.

"Why is that?"

He struggled back to an upright sitting position, then slouched down and stretched his feet out to rest on the padded ottoman. "Because I've made an enemy, Mrs Hudson." Normally he would have announced it more dramatically, and with more relish, but it didn't feel as exciting as it should just now.

"I see," she nodded thoughtfully. "Is that why John needed his gun?"

Sherlock blinked at her.

"Oh, don't look so surprised. Really, Mr March, for detectives or whatever the two of you are, you're not very careful, are you? John leaves his gun lying about, _you_ don't even seem to have one, documentation of your cases on John's laptop, on a public website no less, case notes in your wardrobe and stacks of cash in your sock drawer..."

"You went through our things?"

"Of course I did, sir." Mrs Hudson smiled sweetly. "I need to know how to best meet my guests' needs, after all. Part of the service."

Sherlock shrugged and nodded his acceptance of this perfectly sensible professional and ethical violation.

"So is that why John needed that gun? To protect you from this new enemy of yours?"

He frowned. "Yes, that's what…he thought."

"He wasn't doing a good enough job?" Mrs Hudson asked smartly. "He must have been rather inept for you to have sent him away as you apparently have."

"He was _perfect_ ," Sherlock snapped at her. He tried to drag his fingers through his hair, but they caught in tangles and pulled. He was _afraid_. He was afraid Brook would hurt John. He'd done the _right_ thing, for once, and convinced himself that the doubt gnawing at the back of his neck was his own selfish desire to _keep_ John at any cost. "It's not safe," he protested weakly, "for him."

"Mr March—"

"Holmes," Sherlock corrected with an irritable wave of his hand. He didn't want to hear that wretched pseudonym again, ever.

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson adopted the new name seamlessly, "Do you think that's what he really cares about? He's not that sort of man. And _shame_ on you, if you've told him he is."

"I've told him no such—" Sherlock's voice locked before he could finish his sentence. Was that what he had done?

He knew perfectly well he'd been cruel. He'd _had_ to be, after all—John was a tenacious protector.

John, who ran toward danger. John, whose eyes lit with fevered joy after a rooftop shooting. John, who'd healed his own psychosomatic injury so he could protect _Sherlock_. John, who always wanted to do the _right_ thing. John and his ethics.

Sherlock had _tried_ to do the right thing, but he had—as Lestrade would have so eloquently phrased it—cocked it up again. Sherlock was no hero. He hadn't believed they existed, but John…even though he would never think of himself that way, John was the genuine article.

And what Sherlock had told John—his perfect John—was that he was _not good enough_ at being a hero.

"Mrs Hudson," he breathed, feeling shaky, feeling ill, "I think I've made a mistake."

"I think you have, too, dear," she said with a wincing nod.

He blinked his unspoken, bewildered question at her. _What do I do now?_

Mrs Hudson sighed and took a perching seat on the edge of their burgundy wingback chair. "Perhaps you aren't aware that I'm retiring."

"Yes, of course I am." He'd deduced it the third day of their acquaintance. "How is that relevant—?"

Mrs Hudson held up a hand to silence him. "I’m retiring very soon, as a matter of fact, which might put me in a position where I could be of direct assistance regarding your situation. I have…an idea."

"You?" Sherlock gave her an inquisitive, baldly hopeful look. "How could _you_ help _me_? And…why?"

"We'll get to the _how_. As for the _why_ …out of kindness, of course, sir. I'm quite fond of you both. Yes, _both_ of you." She smiled warmly, and then her smile faded. "And because there's something I want in return, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock," he corrected again, leaning forward attentively.

 

+++

 

John Watson was not one to sit idle for long. Especially, as he thought of himself after his brief time with Sherlock, this _new_ John Watson. Or _renewed_. The war and his injury had left him broken, useless and invisible, at least in his own mind. As painful as the loss of his hopes of being with Sherlock was, their time together had healed that particular wound, or at least started the process. So while his heart ached for Sherlock and for Harry and for himself, he could go on. The soldier in him was back, and soldiers kept marching.

Harry had left him just enough cash to bring their rent payment current, but when he paid Mr Wendell, John gave notice that he would be terminating his lease. He wasn't sure where he would go next, but it was time to move on. His latest round of interviews for locum work at several clinics had proved fruitful, and he felt confident of keeping that work now. It might not be the most _exciting_ use of his rediscovered abilities, he thought with a smirk, but it would pay some bills and help him secure a new flat.

He'd heard nothing more from Harry since her decampment, and had no idea how or where he might find her. If only he knew a good detective…

John had just finished boxing up his kitchen wares and was settling onto the sofa with a glass of whisky when his mobile chimed at him with the notification of an incoming message.
    
    
    221B Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.
    SH
    
    
    
    
    If inconvenient, come anyway.
    SH
    
    
    
    
    Please.
    SH
    
    


	17. Chapter 17

"Sherlock, you'll wear through the rug if you don't stop that pacing," Mrs Hudson chided.

Sherlock paused just long enough on his route around the paper-strewn table between the two street-facing sitting room windows to ignore her proffered mug of tea. Who had decided to put the bloody table here anyway? It was in his _way_. He kicked at one of the legs in passing before he peered impatiently out the right-most window. The view, he was aware, was essentially the same as from the left-most window, but it couldn't hurt to check them both. Repeatedly.

"I'm taking it out of your rent if you do," Mrs Hudson muttered, making her way carefully around the clutter of still-packed boxes and tilting stacks of recently unpacked books to settle herself onto the brown leather sofa.

"He's not coming, is he?"

"Well, dear, he might not," she shrugged placidly over a sip of Sherlock's tea, as though she were not speaking of his impending devastation, "but it hasn't been that long since you sent your text, now has it?"

"It's been _ages_ ," Sherlock corrected her with an aggrieved glare, stomping his way around the _bloody_ table to check the street view from the left window again.

"Half an hour."

"Thirty- _three_ minutes."

"You said he didn't reply. How do you know he's even seen it yet? He could be _busy_. He must have things to do other than sit around waiting to hear from someone he never expected to hear from again," Mrs Hudson reminded him with a tart look.

"What _things_?"

John had been doing _things_ without him for over a fortnight now. Over twenty-one thousand six hundred minutes. Thirty-three _more_ were too many. Sherlock scowled, checking his watch again. Thirty- _four_.

"Did you ask nicely?"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "I said _please_."

"Hm." Mrs Hudson acknowledged this evidence of niceness with a sceptical look.

"If you're not going to say anything _helpful_ —"

Vehicle slowing. Brakes.  Sherlock flung himself against the nearest window and looked down. Taxi! _John!_

"He's here!"

Mrs Hudson rose, smiling, and gently placed her tea on the edge of the coffee table. "You see there—"

"Calm down!" Sherlock bellowed at her, furiously ruffling his hair.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"He likes…hair…reminds him of…sex." Sherlock spun around in a circle, checking the room for…what? Fire. Chairs. Boxes. Violin. Skull. Mrs Hudson. "How do I look?"

Mrs Hudson squinted up at him dubiously. "Like you've recently been electrocuted."

"Excellent. Now go away. Don't move." He pulled her into a fast, hard hug before he hurtled down the stairs to the street entrance.

 

+++

 

John stepped out of the taxi with a cautious eye on the black-painted door of 221 Baker Street. Nothing about the exterior appeared particularly sinister at first glance—a respectable-looking residential building set over the storefront of a small café, closed for the evening. People hurried past him on the pavement with their hands tucked into pockets and their chins tucked into mufflers against a wind that had turned cold after the sunset, but there was a warm glow coming from the two first-storey windows of 221 Baker Street. Gold beckoning him through the grey.

John's first reaction to Sherlock's unceremonious summons had been a rush of fury at the audacity, the miserable, bloody _nerve_ —but what if Sherlock was in real trouble? What if it was Brook?  John had readied his SIG and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, breathing steadily in time with each fifth hard thump of his pulse. It might not be Brook, of course. Sherlock might have decided he was keen on a quick hand job, for all John sodding knew. Or…it might be Brook. He was on the pavement jogging toward the main road to hail a taxi before his reason or pride could catch up with him.

There was a dark flicker in one of those golden windows as John approached the door, and as his hand hovered between the buzzer marked 221B and the brass door knocker, also marked 221B, he heard a muffled shout and a sort of rushing clatter from inside. The door flew open in his face and a soft _whuff_ of air from the building's interior hit him like a warm, delighted breath.

"Hello, John."

 

+++

 

For a moment, Sherlock thought John was reaching for him—an imminent embrace, undeserved, unearned, but offered nonetheless, because that was _John_ —and his hands raised themselves eagerly toward John in return. He dropped them again quickly, self-consciously, when John instead merely pressed one hand against the door frame for support, almost sagging into it. His head dropped and hung heavily. Sherlock frowned. Exasperation? Anger? Relief?

He only thought of relief because it was the sensation flooding his own body just from staring at the top of John's head. Of course there would be no embrace. Too soon. Too optimistic. Nothing was settled yet between them. His attempt to win back John Watson had only just begun. But John was _here_ , within arm's reach again, and Sherlock felt awash in his own hope. What would happen if he _did_ reach out…?

"What the _fuck_ , Sherlock?" John rasped, craning his neck to inspect the space behind Sherlock.

Ah. Anger it was. Sherlock dropped his hands for the second time, quickly nodded his understanding of the question. He tugged at his suit jacket, took a deep breath, and assumed what he hoped was an appropriately oratorical pose to deliver the first lines of his prepared explanation. Not lies. Not manipulation. The truth. Saying what he felt and what he wanted. God, how did people do it? "John, I—"

" _Are you_?" John demanded, finally locking his eyes to Sherlock's. Anger, but not _just_ anger. There were so many emotions churning in that dark blue gaze that Sherlock could not begin to sort them out.

Sherlock blinked, because there had been a question. "Am I…what?"

"All right." John looked at Sherlock as though were being purposefully difficult in misunderstanding a question that had not been asked aloud. " _Are you all right?_ Because, I swear to God, if this actually turns out to be about a hand job," John growled, balling a very sincere-looking fist, "I'm going to make you swallow your own—"

"John! There you are!"

Whilst Sherlock was struggling to make sense of John's greeting, he was jostled out of the doorway by Mrs Hudson, who had appeared beside him with all the quiet stealth of a long-time professional butler. She pulled John into a firm, fond embrace and even pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Mrs _Hudson_?" John said with sharp surprise as he pulled back from the hug, "What the bloody…what's going on?"

"Sherlock!" scolded Mrs Hudson, pulling John into the entry hall. "Invite him in, for heaven's sake. Come in, John. It's so good to see you. Don't mind his lack of manners, dear," she nodded toward Sherlock as she shut the door behind John. " _You_ know what he's like," her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "and he's been ever so nervous all day on top of it."

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock snapped a warning, his eyes finally darting away from John. He cleared his throat. "Although…do come in…John," he said, compensating for his lack of attentiveness with an absurdly formal bow.

"Thanks, I’m already in now, you git." To punctuate the point, John rooted his feet stubbornly to the floor and folded his arms. He looked from Sherlock to Mrs Hudson and then back to Sherlock again. "Well?" he demanded.

"Well, what?"

"I'm here. Why _did_ you ask me to come? I'm assuming it's important. After…" he glanced at Mrs Hudson again, this time with a chagrined look that acknowledged her understanding of their history. "After _everything_."

"You didn't tell him? Anything? Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson sighed with a sad look at John's turbulent expression, "the mess you've made. Go on, take him upstairs for your chat."

"Our chat," John repeated, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Sherlock.

"Go," Mrs Hudson repeated firmly, waving toward the staircase with the back of one hand and patting John reassuringly on the arm with the other.

After a brief hesitation, John grudgingly obeyed—who in his right mind would disobey a direct order from Mrs Hudson, after all?—and started up the stairs. Sherlock trailed after him in his own personal cloud of apprehension. He had thought this conversation through thoroughly—he _had_ —but now that John was here everything he'd planned to say seemed completely inadequate. At the top of the stairs, at Sherlock's gesture to proceed inside, John stepped through the open door of the sitting room, head tilted in curiosity.

As Sherlock closed the door behind them, he took another moment of refuge in formality. "May I take your coat?" The blue suede jacket. One of the few of his gifts John had kept. His palms felt warm at the thought of touching the fabric, the remembrance of the warmth and solidity of John's body beneath it. Did he think of Sherlock when he wore it?

"I'm not sure I'll be staying that long." John glanced toward the back of the door where Sherlock's dark blue tweed greatcoat was already hung. His mouth visibly tightened when he spotted the cashmere blue scarf that was also draped over the peg. "What is this place?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock sucked his lower lip between his teeth as he waited for John's reaction.

"Someone's flat," John guessed with a dismissive shrug, his eyes sweeping over the litter of books and mementos covering every surface in the room and half-empty boxes shoved haphazardly into the corners. "But with all this rubbish strewn about…I don't know, crime scene?"

Sherlock frowned his offense, stooping to pick up a scatter of papers he had knocked from the desk in his earlier pacing rounds. He tried pushing them into a tidy stack. "Well, obviously I can straighten things up. A bit."

John's brow furrowed. "This is _your_ flat?" He scanned the room again, and this time Sherlock saw his gaze catch on the music stand and violin case by the window, and then on the microscope on the kitchen table. "This isn't modern or…or…shiny at all."

"You don't like it?" Sherlock asked, stricken. He knew he should have arranged this room, he _knew_ it, but he couldn't wait any longer and this wasn't the _important_ room, anyway. "I've only just moved in. It will be…nicer."

"I…" John gave him an odd look. "I just pictured you in something different. Not so…homely."

John had _pictured_ him somewhere. That was good, wasn't it? Was homely good? John's expression seemed to have softened, just marginally, so maybe it was good. Sherlock pursued that softening, trying on a mild, pleasant face and a mild, domestic suggestion. "Will you sit? I could make tea. For us. Both of us."

No, that had been wrong. The thoughtful softness bled from John's face.

"Sherlock, I don't want a sodding cuppa. If there's nothing for me to actually _do_ here, just say whatever it is you brought me here to say."

_Come back to me. If inconvenient, come back to me anyway. At once. Please. I miss you. Come back._

Sherlock bowed his head. "John, I understand why you're angry with me—"

John's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do, and I don't expect you to disregard the…manner of our parting. But you asked if I'm all right. And since you asked…" He lifted his eyes to John's, his beseeching look unfeigned. "No, I'm not."

"What's wrong?" John frowned, giving Sherlock another quick visual once-over. "No blood. No bandages. The wrist should be completely healed by now. And I don't see any gun-wielding madmen lurking in the shadows."

"Ohhh." Sherlock's eyes widened. "You thought…"

"Yeah," he said grimly, his cheeks flushing. "I thought."

"Brook."

"Yeah." John started to remove his jacket, his motions jerky and angry, like he needed to move just for the sake of movement. He glanced at the coat peg on the back of the door and perversely flung the jacket over the arm of the brown leather sofa instead. He pulled his gun from his waistband, checked the safety, and set it on the coffee table. "Apparently I won't be needing _this_."

" _That's_ why you came," Sherlock breathed.

"To _save_ you?" John folded his arms, aggressively defensive. "Yep. I came running to save you. I guess I proved your point. You said it was _easy_. You said I liked to _play the hero_. All it took was a text, one hint of danger, and here I am. I'm ridiculous and you win. Again. Congratulations."

John's chin was raised in defiance, daring whatever Sherlock's response might be, as though he expected nothing short of scorn or mockery.

"No, John!" _Sherlock, the mess you've made._ He reached for John automatically with no intention but somehow to take away the pain in his eyes. _Comfort. Just comfort._ He expected resistance—there was no reason his embrace should be welcome—but John was like stone in his arms, neither accepting nor yielding. Sherlock spread his fingers into John's short, soft hair, peppering his hairline with kisses. "Don't you see," he whispered against John's forehead, pulling him closer, "I've lost everything."

John made a raw, anguished sound and stirred under his touch, his hands rising to bunch the fabric of Sherlock's lapels in his fists. For one heady moment, Sherlock thought John would tilt his head up. Look up, press up on his toes, give in, kiss him. But John shoved him away, roughly.

"No," John groaned. "Do you really need to prove _that_ point, too? That, in spite of it all, I still want you? God, Sherlock, why are you doing this? I thought you had a new…toy. Other _interests_. You made it clear."

"I haven't found him. This is nothing to do with _him_."

"So what is this, then?" John gestured sharply between the two of them. "Just amusing yourself whilst you wait?"

"No, John, you're not a distraction. Not a toy. Not a point. Not a game. You're…come with me," Sherlock said urgently, offering his hand. "Come with me and I'll show you."

"Jesus. Show me what? Where?"

"Just upstairs. Please." Sherlock flexed his open hand, beckoning. " _Please_? It's why I asked you to come."

John scrubbed his face with both hands. "All right. Fine. Let's see this. Whatever it is." He turned, brushing past Sherlock's outstretched hand, flung open the sitting room door, and started marching up the stairs to the next level.

Sherlock hastened to follow so he was right behind John when he pushed through the half-open door at the top of the landing.

"A bedroom?" John sighed heavily and turned his palms up. "You wanted to show me your bedroom? That's hardly subtle."

"No, my bedroom is downstairs." Sherlock slid past John into the room and opened his arms in presentation. "This one is yours."

John's lips parted on a bewildered exhalation. "What do you mean… _mine_?"

Sherlock leant over the bed and smoothed down the cover of the duvet proudly. He'd had it specially made. Silk exterior. Icelandic eiderdown filling. "Blue. Do you see? You like blue." The colour matched John's eyes perfectly, of course. He spun around to the small, wooden writing desk set under the single window. Nothing expensive, but it had been his own as a boy, now brought out from storage and polished within an inch of its life. Sherlock had stored his favourite stones and notes on his experiments in the small, velvet-lined drawers and filled the two secret compartments with all the interesting things he had stolen from his brother's room. "You could work on the blog here. Or…anything else you wanted to write," he added quickly, because it was presumptuous to assume John would write about Sherlock's cases again. He turned to the wardrobe, a tall African mahogany piece with intricate rosewood marquetry, and pulled open one of the doors. It had been Mycroft's, had sheltered his meticulously-maintained collection of suits, and so should be of sufficient quality and character to house John's clothes. It had also cost the movers a great deal of perspiration and grief getting it up several flights of stairs. Sherlock grinned as his fingers brushed through the sleeves of John's shirts and jumpers. Mrs Hudson said the jumpers should be folded, but Sherlock liked the way they looked hanging in the wardrobe, bright colours and varied textures, and easier to touch and smell when he felt alone. "And your things are already here," he said softly.

John was beside him now, and he reached up to touch his fingertips against the sleeve of a teal wool-knit jumper, just beneath where Sherlock's hand had come to rest. "You kept these."

"Of course I kept them." Sherlock let his fingers drift down until they covered John's. "I know it's not a large room, but…it's bright in the daytime, especially in the morning. And…you'd have your privacy."

John did not move his hand, nor did he turn to look at Sherlock. When he spoke, his voice cracked as though his throat had gone dry. "And…why would I be staying in this room?"

"John, I…I have a proposition for you."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

Sherlock turned to face John, his heart pounding. "Not funny. Not…not a proposition. An offer."

John licked his lips, his eyes flicking to Sherlock's mouth, throat, and back to his eyes. "An offer. Another job?"

"No." Sherlock took a deep breath. "A partnership."

John swallowed. He had gone very still. Not stone-still, as he had when Sherlock had tried to embrace him. Wary-still, watchful, as he was when he was on guard. "What kind—"

"Either. Both. Whatever you want. In any sense of the word you choose." He stared at John intently, trying to read his expression, but it was closed down and he could deduce nothing. One of the world's most readable men had suddenly become unreadable to him, and Sherlock guessed it was not John whose ability to conceal his thoughts and feelings had changed. Sherlock couldn't see through his own emotion, the grease on the lens. He had always feared this desperately, the loss of his _edge_ in the murky swell of sentiment, but right now it seemed trivial in comparison with the potential rewards. He fumbled forward blindly. "I…I would choose every sense, were it entirely my choice. But…I understand that may no longer be an option. You needn't accept this room. Obviously. But if you won't accept…all I'm offering, maybe you'll accept some part of it. You could live elsewhere. John, I'll take anything. Anything at all. If you'll just come back. In some way. I'm not all right, because I don't have you. I've lost everything, because I've lost you. Come back to me. Please."

There it was, all of it. The truth—and the truth was Sherlock Holmes was wretched with need. He was not on his knees, but he might as well be, because he was most certainly begging. He was fully dressed, but he might as well be naked, for he had most certainly laid himself bare.

And John…John had stepped away from him, still wary, still watchful.

"You hurt me," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

John slid a hand over the smooth finish of the wardrobe. "Why?" he asked, simply.

"Because I was trying to keep you safe."

John nodded, his mouth tightening unhappily.

"But it's not what I wanted."

"I don't understand."

"I told you I was a selfish man."

"Yes." John gave him a pained smile. "I believed you."

"I tried sending you away as an unselfish act. The right thing. The sort of thing I thought _you_ might do. But I'm not very good at it. Not really my area. Cocked it up. Appalling skills. But, selfish…oh, I'm _good_ at selfish. That's the instinct I should have listened to. And I won't make that mistake again. John, if you come back…I promise I will _never_ make that mistake again."

John stared at him for an eternity until he finally said, "I'll think about it." He looked around the little room slowly, reluctantly, as though perhaps—Sherlock's chest fluttered with hope—he didn't want to leave. "About everything."

"John—"

"I _said_ I'll think about it."

"All right." Sherlock nodded. It was enough. He supposed all he could do now was wait. Well…that was not quite all. His mind spun with strategies he might employ to urge John's thoughts in the right direction. And as a selfish man…but, no, for now he would wait.

With as close a thing to composure as he could manage, he followed John back to the sitting room and waited silently as he pulled on his jacket, ejected the magazine from his SIG, and put the pistol and ammunition in separate pockets before continuing on. They had almost reached the ground floor when John stopped so abruptly on the stairs that Sherlock almost fell over him.

"One question," John said, turning to look up at him.

"Yes?"

"What did you mean, it's not what you wanted…you should have listened to your selfish instinct?"

"It means, John, that I don't want to keep you safe. That, as a selfish man, what I _really_ want is to never go into danger without you beside me. If I ever need anyone to save _me_ , I want it to be you."

This time Sherlock could read John's expression, even if only for a moment. The corner of his mouth quirked up and his eyes flashed with pride. In just that moment, that flash, Sherlock thought that if anyone had tapped his heart as an electrical generator, it could have lit all of London. He had gotten something right, hadn't he? At last, he had gotten something right.

"And...if I saved you back, now and then, that would be…good."

John chewed on his lip. "All right." He nodded firmly. "I've thought about it."

Sherlock sucked in a slow breath and held it, waiting.

The curve at the corner of John's mouth spread into a shy, inviting smile. The flash in his eyes flared into a blaze of promise.

Sherlock almost sent them both tumbling down the stairs in his urgency to wrap himself around John. He knew the _yes_ in John's eyes _might_ not mean _yes, everything_. It might mean _yes, business partners_. He knew it might not be appropriate to kiss the top of his business partner's head or smell his hair. Even if his legs were threatening to give out, it might not be appropriate to haul him greedily up the staircase until they fell backward together onto the landing with matching grunts. It might not be appropriate to fling his leg possessively over his business partner's prone form, wrap his arms around his head, and squeeze him with every available muscle.

"Sherlock," John mumbled, muffled, into Sherlock's chest, "I can't breathe."

"Neither can I," Sherlock whispered reverently.

John grunted what sounded like a laugh and wriggled in his arms, pushing away.

"Oh," Sherlock blinked, releasing his hold abruptly. "You mean you _actually_ can't breathe."

John, flushed and grinning feverishly, used his freedom to manoeuvre his arms around Sherlock's neck and pull their mouths together. "Yeah, well…breathing's boring," he murmured just before his lips closed on Sherlock's.

The floor of the staircase was hard and smelled like dust and oiled wood. John's hair smelled like lemon in hot tea. The air between them was heavy and moist. From Mrs Hudson's rooms the sound of orchestral music swelled. Vaughn Williams. Sherlock had purchased the recording for her in Florida. John made the most musical little sounds when he was being kissed.

Sherlock's new business partner's behaviour was also startlingly inappropriate, Sherlock reflected as John's thigh slid between his and nudged up. Just another item on the ever-growing list of reasons John Watson was perfect. Someone moaned, and Sherlock accidentally kicked the bannister when John's teeth found his lower lip. Sherlock would never be perfect, he thought as he clutched at John's waist and dragged his mouth over the curve of his jawline. He would, in fact, be as imperfect as he could for his doctor, his soldier, his hero.

If John Watson wanted danger, Sherlock Holmes would give him a dangerous man. That, he could do.

He pinned John's shoulders to the floor and growled savage intent into his neck, but his traitorous throat had tightened, and the sound came out as a distinctly non-threatening and embarrassing burble.

In his arms, John started to shake with laughter. "Yeah," he said, curling his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "Me too."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _For any Pretty Woman aficionados who thought I forgot about the bath scene...I did not._ :-)

"I know what day it is, you know."

"John, I'm so proud," Sherlock drawled. "Your deductive skills have come a long way. What's next for you? Little hand, big hand?"

John abandoned the soapy flannel he was holding to aim a punitive pinch at a vulnerable part of Sherlock's anatomy. Sherlock squirmed evasively, sending water sloshing against the sides of the bath, and John tightened his thighs to secure him in place. He fortified his trap by folding his arms around Sherlock's chest and sealed the lock with a kiss to the back of his neck.

"You aren't fooling me, you know," he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the damp hair over Sherlock's ear. He breathed in the humid scent of his skin. "I know why we're here."

"Because you said you wanted a bath afterward." Sherlock hummed, deep and drowsy. Sinuous tendrils of steam coiled away from his calf as he lifted one leg out of the warm water. He touched the tip of his toe to the underside of the chrome-plated bath spout. "Have you forgotten? When you said it was _mind-blowing_ , I didn't realize you'd actually suffered memory loss."

"I _know_ ," John grinned doggedly, retrieving the flannel from Sherlock's thigh and dragging it in a lazy arc across his chest, "why we are _here_ in _this_ hotel on _this_ day."

"You said the chemical smell was unpleasant," Sherlock said, leaning his head back against John's shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

"It's the fourteenth."

"And the smoke was burning your eyes."

John rubbed the cloth along the ridge of Sherlock's collarbone and over the curve of his shoulder. "Isn't it fortunate you'd taken your case notes off the wall before the sofa caught fire?"

John saw the crinkles at the edges of Sherlock's eyes. "That _was_ fortunate," he agreed solemnly.

Press clippings and photos and notes, taped and pinned to the sitting room wall, with a web of string drawing out the connections. Although John understood some of those connections, most of it was a jumble to him…but Sherlock had started to see a pattern. Once he began to figure it out, he'd almost crackled aloud with energy. His eyes had been glittering like ice in the sunlight for days now since he'd caught the scent of his prey once again.  _Watch out, Brook. He's going to find you. We're going to find you._

And meanwhile, the sex… bloody hell, the _sex_ … John's body stirred in remembrance and readiness against Sherlock's— _again, already? Yes, please, already_ —as he exchanged his flannel for a bath sponge. He dunked and then wrung out the sponge, letting the air-cooled water trickle down the slope of Sherlock's chest. "And interesting, hm, that it happened three months to the day since we met?" It seemed longer. It seemed like forever, in the best possible way. Every day John thought he could not possibly love Sherlock more, and the next day he discovered how wrong he'd been.

He felt Sherlock's thighs stretch out and his shoulders press back, preening with his whole body. "Is it?" Sherlock finally turned his head to give John a surprised, innocent look over his shoulder.

John kissed the corner of his ridiculously pursed mouth and Sherlock subsided happily into the comfort of John's embrace.

"So what did you get me?" John asked.

Sherlock turned again and raised his eyebrows at the obvious lapse in John's powers of observation. He presented the length of his body to John with a dramatic hand flourish and a pointed look.

"Thanks." John snickered into his hair. "I love it."

"Well, I thought you should have the best," Sherlock purred. "And for me?"

John wriggled his hips against Sherlock's backside, also pointedly. He felt Sherlock's silent chuckle.

"I love it," Sherlock rumbled appreciatively.

"You love _me_."

Sherlock pressed his hips back. Just a little. Just enough. "Do I?"

John heard the smile in his voice…and the challenge. The game was always on. "You do. You said so. I remember it well." John's voice dropped as he nuzzled underneath the back corner of Sherlock's jawline. His hands dipped down, one with his palm flat, the other trailing the sponge, to Sherlock's lower belly, and dragged slowly back up to his shoulders again. He touched his tongue to the pulse point on the side of Sherlock's neck, felt the steady thrum whilst he tasted the salt and mineral tang of his skin. "I remember it very, very well."

Sherlock closed his palm over the back of John's hand, lacing their fingers together. As John placed the sponge on the side of the white porcelain bath, Sherlock flattened John's hand between his, raising them to his chin in his thinking pose. He inspected John's hand, caught between his. Little hand, big hand. They were both learning. "I recently read a study in manufactured memories," he began to muse, playfully.

Almost playfully. He was still trying, but John heard a hitch in his voice, and loved him just a little bit more. "You're going to say it again tonight," he promised, as heart-sure of his power over Sherlock as he was of Sherlock's over him.

At 221B, at home, John still had his own room upstairs. It was _his_ , it was wonderful, and he couldn't bear to give it up—not just yet—but he and Sherlock had not spent a night apart since John had moved in.

The lights in the black and white tiled bathroom were low, and the air still heavy with steam and the sweet-spicy bergamot scent that drifted up when their bodies moved in the water. A set of fluffy white towels were draped over the stainless steel towel warmer. Their clothes were elsewhere, scattered across the suite, a jumper draped over the back of the upholstered burgundy wingback chair, a shoe under the padded ottoman, a green wool sock peeking out from under the dove-grey duvet. "We're here because you're a romantic," John accused softly.

Sherlock pulled John's hand against his chest. "Am I?"

John ran his other hand down the long stretch of Sherlock's bicep to rest in the damp hollow at the crook of his elbow. He twisted his wrist so his thumb could stroke the smooth, delicate skin there. It had been Lestrade who told John about the drugs. Sherlock never spoke of it. There were a lot of things Sherlock had never told him, and maybe never would. That was all right, though. John never spoke of Afghanistan, and maybe he never would. Everyone had their war. He knew what to do if anything ever happened to the smooth skin at Sherlock's elbow, just as Sherlock knew what to do if John woke up crying in the night. They knew enough. They were all right.

"You're a very good romantic," John assured him, with a hard, happy hug.

"Well. I'm very good at everything."

John grinned at the boast. "Like…pub quiz?"

"Almost everything," Sherlock grumbled. "We're never doing that again."

"No," John agreed readily, "We are not."

"I'm good at everything _you_ like."

He couldn't deny that. If John liked something, Sherlock made certain he was amazing at it. Sherlock was _amazing_. And _his_. "Sherlock. Say it now?" John requested, this time humbly. "For me?"

Sherlock turned his head, shifted, pressed his mouth against John's throat and whispered his secret, just for _him_ to know, just three words, so softly they could barely be heard beyond John's skin. The words shivered through John's body so hard the water around them rippled. Sherlock blinked away the hazy warmth in the air and gave John a look that was almost savage with need. "John. Tell me you're ready again," he growled.

Ready. For howling his heart out with Sherlock's hand clapped over his mouth. For sex so strenuous he might need his cane again for the next few days. For finding their furniture in flames. For huddling in a cold alley for hours waiting for a smuggler to show up. For tracking down the psychopath who had blown them a cruel kiss goodbye. For a bag full of severed toes next to the milk. For tea by the fire. For sock feet tucked under a warm thigh. John was ready, and he told Sherlock so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual end. Thank you so much betas aniciajuliana and MB for all your feedback and general hand-holding.
> 
> Thank you especially to you, readers. I had fun, and I hope you did, too. <3


End file.
